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THE SKETCH BOOK 



BY 

WASHmGTOIsr lEVII^G 



NEW YORK: 

HURST & CO., PUBLISHERS, 

NO. 122 NASSAU STREET. 






ARGYLE PRESS, 

Printing and Bookbinding, 

24 & es WOOSTER ST., N. Y. 



EXCHANGE 



JUN 12 1944 

Serial p— ■"" ■-•ion 



CONTENTS 



PAttE 

The Voyage 9 

RoscoE 14 

The Wife i 19 

Rip Van Winkle 25 

English Writers on America 37 

Rural Life in England 44 

Broken Heart, The « 49 

Art of Book-making 53 

A Royal Poet 58 

Country Church, The 69 

Widow and her Son, The 73 

Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 78 

Mutability op Literature 86 

Rural Funerals. 94 

The Inn Kitchen 103 

Specter Bridegroom, The 105 

Westminster Abbey 116 

Christmas 124 

Stage Coach, The 128 

Christmas Eve 133 

Cheistmas Day 141 

Christmas Dinner, The 151 

Little Britain 163 

Stratford-on-Avon 173 

Traits op L^idian Character 187 

Philip op Pokanoket 195 

John Bull 207 

Pride op the Village 215 

Angler, The.. , 223 

Sleepy Hollow, The Legend of 339 

(iii) 



TO 

Sir WALTER SCOTT, Bart., 

THIS WORK IS DEDICATED IN TESTIMONY 

OF THE 

ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION 

■ OF 

THE AUTHOR. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO THE 

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. 

The following writings are publistied on experiment ; should they 
please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to con- 
tend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject 
to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He 
cannot, therefore, Droniise a regular plan, nor regular periods of 
piublication. Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may 
elapse between the appearance of his numbers ; and their size will 
depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings will 
partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feelings ; some- 
thnes treating of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely 
imaginary, and sometimes wandering back with his recollections to 
his native country. He will not be able to give them that tranquil 
attention necessary to finished composition ; and as they must be 
transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will have to trust 
to others to correct the frequent errors of the press. Should his 
writings, however, with all their imperfections, be well received, he 
cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification ; 
for though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the re- 
wards of loftier intellects ; yet it is the dearesr^ wish of his heart to 
have a secure and cherished, though humble cornei in the good opin- 
ions and kind feelings of his countrymen. 

London, 1819. 



ADVERTISEMENT 

TO THE 

FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. 

The following desultory papers are part of a series written in this 
eoariffy, but published in America. The author is aware of the au- 
sterity with which the writings of his countrymen have hitherto been 
treated by British critics ; he is conscious, too, that much of the con- 
tents of his papers can be interesting only in the eyes of American 
readers. It was not his intention, therefore, to have them reprinted 
in this country. He has, however, observed several of them from 
time to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has under- 
stood that it was probable they would be republished in a collective 
form. He has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them for- 
waid himself, that they may at least come correctly before the public. 
Should they be deemed of sufficient importance to attract the atten- 
tion of critics, he solicits for them that courtesy and candor which 
a stranger has some right to claim who presents himself at the thresh- 
old of a hospitable nation. 

February, 1830. > ' , 

(vi) 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was 
turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on j so 
the traveller that stragleth from his owne countrjr is in a short time transformed into 
BO monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to 
live where he can, not where he would— Zi/^y's Euphues. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes and observing strange 
cliaracters and manners. Even when a mere cliild I began my travels, 
and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown 
regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and 
tlie emolument of the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended 
the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in 
rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with 
all its places, famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a 
murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited 
the neighboring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowl- 
edge by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their 
sages and great men. 1 even journeyed one long summer's day to 
the summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye 
over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how 
vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of 
voyages and travels became my passion, and in de souring their con- 
tents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully 
would I wander about the pier heads in fine weather, and watch the 
parting ships, bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would 
I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to 
the ends of the earth ! 

Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this vague in- 
clination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more 
decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had I been 
merely influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have felt little 
desire to seek elsewhere its gratification ; for on no country have the 
charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, 
like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright aerial 
tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendous cata- 
racts, thundering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving 
with spontaneous verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn 
silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the magic of 
summer clouds and glorious sunshine : — no, never need an American 
look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural 
scenery. 

But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical asso- 
ciation. There were to be seen the jnasterpieces of art, the refine- 

Cviii 



viii THE AUTHORS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

ments of liiglilj cultivated society, tlie quaint peculiarities of ancient 
and local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise ; 
Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every moldering stone was a 
chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achieve- 
ment — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter 
about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, 
in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose my- 
self among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of the 
earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America ; not a city but) 
has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my 
time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast 
me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a 
great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious 
to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of vari- 
ous philosophers that all animals degenerated in America, and man 
among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must there- 
fore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps 
to a highland of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed by 
observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of 
many English travelers among us, who, I was assured, were verj 
little people in their own country. ' I will visit this land of wonders, 
thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion 
gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and wit- 
nessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have 
studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the saun- 
tering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from 
the window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometimes by the 
delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, 
and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion 
for modem tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their 
portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the 
entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints 
and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart 
almost fails me, at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from 
the great objects studied by every regular traveler who would make 
a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
landscape-painter, who had traveled on the continent, but following 
the bent of his vagrant inclination , had sketched in nooks and cor- 
ners and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with 
cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to 
paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the 
bay of Naples ; and had nob a single glacier or volcjano in his whole 
collection. 



I'HE SKETCH-BOOK. 

By Washington Irving. 



I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator 
of other men's fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts ; which, 
methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theater or scene. 

BUKTON. 



THE VOYAGE. 



Ships, ships, I will descry yoQ 
Ainidst the main, 

I will come and try yoa, 

What you are protecting, 

And projecting. 
What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
Hallo I my fancy, whither wUt thou go ?— Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage lie has to make is 
an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes 
and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive 
new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates 
the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no grad- 
ual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of 
one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From 
the moment you lose sight of the land you have left all is vacancy, 
until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into 
the bustle and novelties of another world. 

In traveling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected 
succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, 
and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, 
" a lengthening chain " at each remove of our pilgrimage : but the 
chain is unbroken ; we can trace it back link by link ; and we feel 
that the last of them still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voy- 
age severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from 



10 SKETCH-BOOS:. 

the secure ancnorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful 
world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between 
us and our homes — a gulf, subject to tempest, and fear, and uncer- 
tainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue 
line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it 
seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, 
and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, 
too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most 
dear to me in life ; wliat vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes 
might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, 
when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the 
uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or 
whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expression. 
To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, 
a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are the 
wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the 
mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-rail- 
ing or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours to- 
gether on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; — to gaze upon the 
piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon ; fancy them 
some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to 
watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as 
if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with 
which I looked down from my giddy height on the monsters of the 
deep at their uncouth gambols : shoals of porpoises tumbling about 
tUe bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heaving his huge form 
above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, 
through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that 
" had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the finny 
herds that roam Its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters 
that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild 
phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this 
fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! 
What a glorious monument of human invention, that has thus 
triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world 
into communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pour- 
ing into the sterile regions of the nortli all the luxuries of the South ; 
has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated 
life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the 
human race between which nature seemed to have thrown an insur- 
mounta jle barrier. 



TEE VOYAGE. 11 

We one day descried some sliapeless object drifting at a distance. 
At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding ex- 
panse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must 
have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of hand- 
kerchiefs by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 
spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no 
trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck 
had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish 
had fastened about it, and long sea- weeds flaunted at its sides. But 
where, thought 1, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over 
— they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — their bones 
lay whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like 
the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of 
their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ; what pray- 
ers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the 
mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch 
some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expec- 
tation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into de- 
spair ! Alas ! not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. 
All that shall ever be known is that she sailed from her port, " and 
was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anec- 
dotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the 
weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look Avild and threat- 
ening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms that will 
sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we 
sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom 
more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was 
particularly struck with a short one related by the captain : 

" As I was once sailing,'- said he, " in a fine stout ship across iAe 
banks of Newfoundland, one of tliose heavy fogs that prevail in those 
parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead , even in the daytime , 
but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship, I kept lights at the mast- 
head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was 
blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through 
the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — -, 
it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small) 
schooner, at anchor, with a broadside toward us. The crew were alE 
asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid- 
ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel, bore her down 
below the waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. 
As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of 
two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin ; they j ^ 
started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. \ 



12 SKETCH-BOOK 

heard tlieir drowning cry mingling witli tlie wind. The blast that 
bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never 
forget that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship 
about, she was under such headway. We returned as nearly as we 
could guess to the place where the smack had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense feg. We fired signal- 
guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors ; but 
all was silent — we never saw or heard anytbiDg of them more." 

I confess these stories for a time put an end to all my fine fan- 
cies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashecj 
into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of 
rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times 
the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes 
of lightning tbat quivered along the foaming billows, and made the 
succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over 
tbe wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the 
mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among 
these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her bal- 
ance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the 
water ; her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes 
an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing 
but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. 
The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal 
wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of 
bulkheads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. 
As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring 
in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
prison, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning 
of a seam, might give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon 
put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the 
gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the 
ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears — 
how she seems to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with 
the reveries of a sea voyage ; for with me it is almost a continual 
reverie — but it is time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land \" 
was given from the mast-head. None but those who have experi' 
enced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which 
rush into an American's bosom when he first comes in sight of Europe. 
There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land 
, of promise, teeming of everything of which his childhood has heard, 
or on which his studious years bav«^ pondered. 

From that time until the mofl^ent of arrival it was ;^ feverish ex- 



THE VOYAGE. 13 

citement. The ships of war that prowled like guardian giants along 
the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; 
the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of 
intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey I reconnoitered the 
shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, 
with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mold- 
ering ruins of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a 
village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were 
characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled to 
•eome at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some idle 
lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could 
tlistinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew 
him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were thrust 
into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and 
fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in defer- 
ence to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings 
and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as 
friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one 
young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was 
leaning forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the 
ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. 
She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when I heard a faint voice 
call her name. — It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the 
voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When 
the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him 
on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased that he 
had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might 
see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came 
up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a coun- 
tenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even 
the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his 
voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read at once a whole volume 
of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances^ 
the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of business. 1 
alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to 
receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that \ 
was a stranger in the land. 



U BKEWH-BOOK. 



ROSCOE. 



•^— In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below ; still to emijloy 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the groveling herd, 
And make us shine for ever— that is life. 

Thomsomt. 

. One of tlie first places to which, a stranger is taken in Liverpool is 
(the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan ; it 
contains a good library and spacious reading-room, and is the great 
literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are 
sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed 
in the study of newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was 
attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in 
life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but 
it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Ro- 
man style of countenance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ; 
and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting 
thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of 
a poetic soul. There was something in his whole appearance that 
indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was RoscOE. I drew 
back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an 
author of celebrity ; this was one one of those men whose voices have 
gone forth to the ends of the eaith ; with whose minds I have com- 
muned even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in 
our country, to know European writers only by their works, we can- 
not conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid 
pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dusty 
paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior be- 
ings, radiant with the emanations of their own genius, and sur- 
rounded by a halo of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling 
among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; 
but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has 
been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. 
,/ It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create them- 
selves ; springing up under every disadvantage, and working their 
solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature 
seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it 
would rear legitimate dullness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor 
ard luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of 
genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony 



ROSGOE. 15 

places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles 
of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in 
the cleftd of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread 
over their sterile birth-place all the beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr, Roscoe. Born in a place appar- 
ently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very market- 
place of trade ; without fortune, family connections or patronage, self- 
prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered 
every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and having become one 
of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his 
talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him 
the greatest interest In my eyes, and induced me particularly to point 
him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he 
is but one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual 
nation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame or 
their own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the 
world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsis- 
tency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and 
commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of let- 
tered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental but exclusive enjoy- 
ment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on tbe contrary, has claimed none of the accorded priv- 
ileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, 
nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways and 
thorougfares of life, he has planted bowers by the way-side, for the 
refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure 
fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and 
heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There 
is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate and 
grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimit- 
able example of excellence, but presents a picture of active yet simple 
and inimitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, 
unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a 
paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizens 
of our young and busy country, where literature and the elegant arts 
must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity ; 
and niust depend for their culture not on the exclusive devotion of 
time and wealth ; nor the quickening rays of titled patronage ; but 
on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, 
by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of lei- 
sure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give its own 
impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo De Medici, on 
whom he seems to have fixed lus eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, 



16 8EBTGH-B00K 

lie lias interwoven the Mstory of Ms life vr tli the history of his native 
town, and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of 
his virtues. Wherever you go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces of 
his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of 
wealth flowing merely in the channels of traflBc ; he has diverted from 
it invigorating rills to refresh the gardens of literature. By his own 
example and constant exertions he has effected that union of com- 
merce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in 
one of his latest writings ;* and has practically proved how beauti- 
fully they may be brought to harmonize and to benefit each other. 
The noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which re- 
flect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the 
public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all been effect- 
ively promoted by Mr, Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly 
increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to 
vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, it will be per- 
ceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improvement among 
its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British 
literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in Liverpool, 
he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his having been un- 
fortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich 
men do. I consider him far above the reach of my pity. Those who 
live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the 
frowns of adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by 
the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resour- 
ces of his own mind ; to the superior society of his own thoughts ; 
• which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam 
abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the 
world around him. . He lives with antiquity, and with posterity : 
with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement ; and 
with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future renown. The 
solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then 
visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of 
noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness 
of this world. / 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune 
to light on "further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gen- 
tleman to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, 
through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After riding a short 
distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the 
Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of ele- 
gance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away 
from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft 



* Address on the opening of the Liv«rpool Institution. 



MOSCOW. A7 

fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mei'sey was seen 
winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green 
meadowland ; while the Welsh mountains, blending with clouds, and 
melting into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his pros- 
perity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary refine- 
ment. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows 
of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mention- 
ed. The windows were closed — the library was gone. Two or threej 
ill-favored beings were loitering about the place, whom my fancy 
pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting some classic 
fountain that had once welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but 
finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over 
the shattered marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library, which had consist- 
ed of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the 
materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer 
of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. 

The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some 
part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a 
scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine something 
whimsical in this strange irruption into the regions of learning. Pig- 
mies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the pos- 
sessions of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture 
to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculaing brow 
over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; 
or the air of intense but bafiled sagacity with which some successful 
purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had se- 
cured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's misfortunes, 
and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the 
parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feel- 
ings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the 
notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent 
yet eloquent companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours boi* 
come in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to 
dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends 
grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civil- 
ity and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance 
of happier hays, and cheer us with that true friendship which never 
deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool 
had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and to 
themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly 
reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would 
be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful ; 



18 BKETCE^BOOK, 

but it certainly appears to me sucli an opportunity as seldom occuft*, 
of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes by one of the 
m.ost delicate, but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is 
difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily 
before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other 
men. His great qualities lose their novelty, and we become too fa- 
miliar with the common materials which form the basis even of the 
loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him 
merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him en- 
gaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, per- 
haps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that 
amiable and unostentatious simplicity of character, which gives the 
name less grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued 
by some coarse minds who do not know that true worth is always 
void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters who speaks of 
Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. — The intelligent 
traveler who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the 
literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar. — He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone 
in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, on 
parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If anj*- 
thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here 
displayed, it is the conviction that the whole is no effusion of fancy, 
but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart : 

TO MY BOOKS. 

As one, who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhUe 
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you : nor with faintmg heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
When freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 

Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
,&ad kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



TEE WIFE. W 



THE WIFE. 

He treasures of the deep are not so precioiM 

As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessinffs, when I come but near the house. 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth— 
The violet bed's not sweeter 1 

MlDDLETOK, 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which wo- 
men sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those dis- 
asters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in 
the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give 
such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it ap- 
proaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to be- 
hold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and de- 
pendence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading thfl 
prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the 
comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abid- 
ing with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the 
oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant 
is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling i-ound it with its caressing tendrils, 
and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Prov 
idence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of 
man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smit- 
ten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses 
of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up 
the broken heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a bloom- 
ing family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you 
no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and 
children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your pros- 
perity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I 
have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more 
apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly 
because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the 
helpless alid beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; 
but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic 
endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though 
all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little worl(5 
of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man 
is apt to run to waste and self -neglect , to fancy himself lonely and 
abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, 
for want of an inhabitant. 



30 SKETCH-BOOK. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of wMcli I 
was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie; liad married a beau- 
tiful and accomplisbed girl, who had been brought up in the midst of 
fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my 
friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging 
her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate 
tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — 
" Her life," said he, " shall be life a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious com- 
bination ; he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was 
ill life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with 
which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly 
powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, hel 
eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and ac- 
ceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted 
finely with his tall., manly person. The fond confiding air with which 
she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride 
and cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for 
its very helplessness. Never did a cou]3le set forward on a flowery 
path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of feli- 
city. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his 
property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many 
months* when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from 
him, and he fouud himself reduced to almost penury. For a time he 
kept his situation +.0 Mmself, and went about with a haggard counte- 
nance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; 
and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keep- 
ing up a smile in the prf^sonce of his wife ; for he could not bring 
himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with 
the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She 
marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived 
by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her 
sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to hap 
piness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more 
he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that ha 
was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the 
smile will vanish from that cheek —the song will die away from thos€ 
lips — the luster of those eyes will he quenched with sorrow — and the 
happy heart which now beats lightly fn that bosom will be weighed 
down, like mine, by the cares and miser^s of the world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation 
in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I 
inquired, " Does your wife know all this?" A^thequee^t'on he burst 
into an agony of tears. " For God's sake I " cred he, " ?f you have 
any pity on me, don't mention my wife ; it is the ihouji.Ui ©f her thht 
drives me almost to madness '. " 



TBE WIFR ^1 

** And wliy not ? " said I. " Slie must know it sooner or later : you 
cannot keep it long from lier, and the intelligence may break upon 
her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself ; for the 
accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you ar<? 
depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely 
that, bat also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts togeth- 
er — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon 
preceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true 
love will not brook reserve : it feels undervalued and outraged, when 
even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." 

" Oh, but my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her 
future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by 
telling her that her husband is a beggar ! — that she is to forego all 
the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me 
into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her 
down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in 
constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every 
heart ! — How can she bare poverty ? She has been brought up in all 
the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? She has 
been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break her 
heart ! " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow 
relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he 
had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and 
urged him to break his situatiorrat once to his wife. He shook his 
head mournfully, but positively. 

** But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should 
know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your 
circumstances. You must change your style of living — nay," observ- 
ing a pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that afflict you. 
I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show — 
you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of 
you for being less splendidly lodged ; and surely it does not require a 
palace to be happy with Mary — " " I could be happy with her," cried 
he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into pover- 
ty and the dust ! — I could— I could — God bless her ! — Grod bless her ! " 
cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

" And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grc^sping 
Mm warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the same with 
you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it 
will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her 
nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. 
There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which 
lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles 
up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man 
tLnows what the wife of his bosom is — ^no man knows what a minis- 



22 SKETCH-BOOK, 

tering angel slie is- -until lie lias gone witli her through the fiery 
trials of this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the fig' 
urative style of my language, that caught the ercited imagination of 
Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following up the 
impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and 
unburden his sad heart to his wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little 
solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one 
whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits 
might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility, suddenly 
pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which 
they had hitherto reveled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is ac- 
companied by so many galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, 
it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning 
without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 

" And how did she bear it ? 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for 
she threw her arms around my neck, and asked if this was all that 
had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, "she can- 
not realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty 
but in the abstract . she has only read of it in poetry, where it is al- 
lied to love. She feels as yet no privation • she suffers no loss of ac- 
customed conveniences nor elegances. When we come practically to 
experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — 
then will be the real trial." 

" But " said I, * now that you have got over the severest task, that 
of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the 
better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; but then it is a single mis- 
ery, and soon over ; whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, 
every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretense, that 
harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an 
empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that mu?;t Kzon come to 
an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and jr~ ^g^i^n poverty 
of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie pci'fectly pre- 
pared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was 
only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. 

Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had 
disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage in the coun- 
try, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending 
out furniture. The new establishment required I'ew articles, and 
those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late res- 
idence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was 
too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the lit- 
tle story of their loves ; for some of tlie sweetest moments of their 
courtship were those when he had. leaned oyer that iustrumeut, aaa 



THE WIFE. 23 

listened to fhe -melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at 
tliia instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, wliere his wife had been all 
day, superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strong- 
ly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine 
evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked 
out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary !" at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. 

'* And what of her," asked I, "has anything happened to her ? " 

" What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be 
reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged ia a miserable cottage — 
tcbe obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched 
Jiabitation ? " 

*' Has she then repined at the change ?" 

" Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. 
Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she 
has been to me all love and tenderness and comfort ! " 

"Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my 
friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treas- 
ures of excellence you possessed in that woman." 

"Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, 
I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real 
experience : she has been introduced into an humble dwelling — she 
has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments — she 
has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment — 
she has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of 
everything elegant — almost of everything convenient ; and may now 
be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of t 
future poverty." 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not 
gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly 
shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we 
eame in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appearance 
for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A 
wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few 
trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several 
pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass- 
plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that 
Wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached 
we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused 
and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most 
touching simplicity^ a little air of which her husband was peculiarly 
fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble ob my arm. He stepped forward to 



34 SKETCH-BOOK. 

hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on tlie gravel walk. A 
briglit beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a 
light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. 
She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were 
twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole 
countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ; I have 
been watching and watching for you ; and running down the lane, 
and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree 
behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some of the most deli- 
(Cious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such 
excellent cream — and everything is so sweet and still here. — Oh!" 
said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his 
face, "oh. we shall be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — he folded 
his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he could not 
speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured 
me that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and 
his life has indeed been a happy one, yet never has he experienced a 
Vnoment of more exquisite felicity. 



[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Died, 
rich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very 
curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the 
descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, 
however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the 
former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics ; whereas he 
found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in that legen- 
dary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he hap- 
pened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed 
farm-house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little 
clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book- 
worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some 
years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary char- 
acter of his work; and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than 
it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, in- 
deed, was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since 
been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all histori- 
cal collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his jrk, 
and now, that he is dead and gone?, it cannot do much harm to his 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 25 

memory to say tliat his time miglit liave been much better employed 
in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own 
way ; and thoiigh it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the 
eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom 
he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies 
are remembered *' more in sorrow than in anger," * and it begins to 
be suspected tli at he never intended to injure or offend. But how- 
ever his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear 
among many folk whose good opinion is well worth having ; particu- 
larly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his 
likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance 
for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo 
medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 

▲ POSTHUMOUS WEITINa OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which 1 creep into 

My sepulchre— 

Cartweight. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the 
Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great 
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swell- 
ing up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 
Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour 
of the day, produces some chang? in the magical hues and shapes of 
these mountains ; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far 
and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and set- 
tled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines 
on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their 
summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and 
light up like a crown of glory. 

, At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have de- 
scried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs 
gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt 
away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little vil- 
lage of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch 
colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning 

* Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplanck, Esq.. bef '^e the New York His- 
f*?^r^i Society. 



26 BKETCH-nOOK. 

of tlie government of tlie good Peter Stuyvesant (may lie rest in peace !) 
and tliere were some of the liouses of the original settlers standing 
within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Hol- 
land, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with 
weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to tell 
tlie precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), there 
lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great 
Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the name of Rip Van Win- 
kle. He was a decendant of the Van Winkles who figured so gal- 
lantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 
him to the siege of fort Christina. He inherited, however, but little 
of the martial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he 
was a simple, good-natured man ; he was moreover a kind neighbor, 
and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circum- 
stance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such 
universal popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious 
and conciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at 
home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable 
in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of 
patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in 
some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and if so, Rip 
Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good wives 
of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his part in 
all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked those 
matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on 
Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would shout 
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made 
their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he 
went dodging about the \illage, he was surrounded by a troop of 
them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a 
thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and n^^ t a dog would bark at 
him throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition w.'.s an insuperaole aversion to 
all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity 
or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a, rod as long and 
heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even 
though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble. He would 
carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging 
through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale to shoot a 
few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a 
neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all 
country frolics for husking Indian eorn or building stone fences. The 



RIP VAN WINKLE. g7 

women of tlie village, too, used to employ liim to run their errands, 
and to do sucli little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would 
not do for them ; — in a word, Rip was ready to attend to anybody's 
business but his own ; but as to doing family duty, and keeping his 
farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was 
the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country; every- 
thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. His 
fences were continually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go 
astray or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker/ 
in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point of 
setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so that though 
his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, 
acre by acre, until there was little more left than a mere patch of 
Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in 
the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to 
nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, prom- 
ised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. He was 
generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a 
pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he had much ado to 
hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white 
bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, 
and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left 
to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, 
his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 

Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and 
ev3rything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household 
eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the 
kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged 
his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. 
This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from hi"> wife, so that 
he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the y itside of the 
bouse — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a honpecked lius- 
band. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, wlr. Fvas as muoh 
henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as 
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye- 
as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all 
points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was as courageous an 
animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand 
the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? The 
moment Wolf entered the h^^^s^ ^^'^% crest fell, his tail drooped to the 



28 8KETCB-B00K 

ground or curled between liis legs, lie sneaked about witli a gallows 
air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the 
least flourish of a broomstick or ladle he would fly to the door with 
yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as years of 
matrimony rolled on : a tart temper never mellows with age, and a 
sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener with constant 
use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philos- 
;ophers, and other idle personages of the village, which neld its ses- 
,sions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund por- 
trait of his majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the 
shade, of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village 
gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it would 
have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old news- 
paper fell into their hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly 
they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van 
Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man, who was not 
to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how 
sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after 
they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas 
Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the 
door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving 
sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree ; 
so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accu- 
rately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but 
smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great 
man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to 
■ gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related dis- 
pleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to 
send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he 
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light 
and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, 
and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod 
his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed 
by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tran- 
quillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to nought ; nor 
was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the 
daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charge-:; him outright with 
encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, i..^d his only alter- 
native to escape from the labor of the farm and the clamor of his 
"wife was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here 



RIP TAN WmKLE 39 

R© would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a t^^e, anc! sTiar© the 
eontents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a 
fellow-sufferer in persecution. *'Poor Wolf," he would say, ** thy 
mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst 
'i live, thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee I " Wolf would 
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel 
pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his 
heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day. Rip had un 
consciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill 
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel -shooting, and 
the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his 
jun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the afternoon, 
on a green knoll covered with mo:.ntain herbage, that crowned the 
brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He 
Baw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on 
its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or 
the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, 
and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, 
lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the Im 
pending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the refiected rays of the set^ 
ting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene , evening was 
gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their long blue 
shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be dark long before 
he could reach the village ; and he heaved a heavy sigh when h«? 
thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance hallo 
ing, ' * Rip Van Winkle I Rip Van Winkle I " He looked around, 
but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary fiiglit across the 
mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and 
turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through 
the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle I Rip Van Winkle I " — at the 
same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked! 
to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now 
felt a vague apprehension stealing over him : he looked anxiously in' 
the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up 
the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on 
his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely 
and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- 
borhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity 
of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square-built old fellow, 
with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress wai^ of the 
antique Dutch fashion— a cloth jerkin strapped round t!uo waist— 



«0 ^ SKETCH BOOK. 

several ^ir^i ui^eclics, the outer one of ample volume, decorateu 
witli rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He 
bore on his shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied 
with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other they clam 
bered up a narrow gully > apparently the dry bed of a mountain tor 
rent. As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling 
peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, 
or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path 
conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the mut- 
tering of one of those transient thunder showers which often take 
place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by per- 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees shot 
their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky 
and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip and hia 
companion had labored on in silence ; for though the former marveled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this 
wild mountain, yet there was something strange and incompre- 
hensible about the unknown that inspired awe and checked famil- 
iarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder presented 
themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company of odd ■ 
looking personages playing at nine-pins. They w^ere dressed in a 
quaint outlandish fashion , some wore short doublets, others jerkins, 
with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous 
breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, 
too, were peculiar ; one had a large head, broad face, and small pig- 
gish eyes ; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and 
was surmounted by a white sugar loaf hat, set off with a little red 
cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There 
was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gen-- 
tleman, with a weather beaten countenance; he wore a laced doubletj 
ibroad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red stockings, 
jand high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group re- 
.minded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of 
Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought 
over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folka 
were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest 
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most mel- 
ancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing inter- 
rupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, 
whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains lika rumbling 
peals of thunder. 



BIP VAN WINKLE, dl 

As Rip and Ws companion approached them, they suddenly desisted 
from their play, and stareilat him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, 
and suci strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his heart 
turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion 
now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made 
signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and 
trembling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then 
returned to their game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ven- 
tured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which 
he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was 
naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. 
One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon 
so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam 
in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he 
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it 
was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twitter- 
ing among the bushes, aud the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breast- 
ing the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not 
slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep 
The strange man with the keg of liquor — the mountain ravine — the 
wild retreat among the rocks — the woe-begone party at nine-pins — the 
flagon — " Oh! that wicked flagon !" thought Rip — " what excuse shall 
I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-oiled 
fowling-piece, he found an old fire lock lying by him, the barrel in- 
crusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He 
now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick 
upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his 
gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away 
after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his 
name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, bu* 
no dog was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and 
tf he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he 
rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his 
usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," 
thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the 
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle. " 
With some difficulty he got down into Ihe glen ; he found the gully 
up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; 
but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down 
it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen wiih babbling mur- 
murs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working 
his toilsome way through thicket* of birch, sassafras, and witch hajsel | 




^" ' -K! 



33 SKETCn-BOOK, 

and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines tuu- 
twisted their coils i\ud tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of 
network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the 
cliffs to the amphitheater ; but no traces of such opening remained. 
The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent 
came tumbling in a sheet of featliery foam, and fell into a broad deep 
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, 
poor Kip was brought to a stand. He again called and whistled after 
his dog ; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, 
sporting high m air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny preci- 
pice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and 
3coff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The 
:iiorning was passing away, and Kip felt famished for want of his 
breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to 
meet his wife : but it would not do to starve among the mountains. 
He shook his head, shouldered his rusty firelock, and with a heart 
full of trouble and anxiety turned his steps homeward- 

xVs he approached the village, he met a number of people, but none 
whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought 
himself acquainted Avitli every one in the country round. Their dress, 
too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. 
They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever 
they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The con- 
stant recurrence of this gesture induced Kip, involuntarily, to do the 
same, when to his astonishment he found his beard had grown a 
foot long I 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strang« 
children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing at his gray 
beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old 
acquaintance, barked at him as lie passed. The very village was 
altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which had been his famil- 
iar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors — 
strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now 
misgave him • he began to doubt whether both he and the world 
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village,' 
which he had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill 
mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was 
every hill and dale precisely as it had always been. — Kip was sorely 
perplexed. — "That flagon last nigh* " thought he, "has addled my 
^oor head sadly ! " 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, 
which he approached with silent awe, expecting every mon»ent to 
hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle He found the house gone 
to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the door* 



BIP VAN WINKLE. 83 

flff the Llpges. A half starved dog, that looked like Wolf, wa« skulk- 
ing about it. Piip called Ulm by name, but the cur snarled, showed 
his ifJiih, and passed on. This was an unkind out indeed. — " My verj 
do^," Higlied poor Rip, "has forgotten me I" 

He entered the house, which, trj tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle 
liad always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and appar- 
ently abandoned. Tlas desolatenf:«s overcame all his connubial fears 
— he calh;d loudly for his wife and cliildren— the lonely chambers 
rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 

lie now hiirrjed forth, and hastened to liis old resort, the village 
Inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden building st^xxl in 
Its plaw, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and 
mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painte<j, 
" The LTnion Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the gr<;attree 
tliat used to sh'lter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was 
reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top tliat looked like 
a red night-cap, and from it was fluiteringaflag, on which was a sin- 
gular assemblage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and in 
comprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however,th'5 ruby face of 
King George, under which he had smoked so manya peacf.-ful pipe, but 
even this was singularly metariiorpliosed. The red coat was clianged 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand inrst'-ad of a 
Bcepter, the head was decr^rated with a cocked hat, and underneath 
was paintf:d in large characters. General WAfiirrxGTON. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that 
Rip recrjllected. The very character of the people seemed changed. 
There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone alx)Ut it, instead of the 
accustomed phh;gm and drowsy ta:anquillity. He looked in vain for 
tJie sage Nicliolas Vedder, with his broad fac^;, double cliin, and fair 
long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeclies ; 
or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an 
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking fellow, 
with liis pockets full of iiandbills, was haranguing vehemently about 
rights of citizens — election — members of Congress — liberty — Bunker'.'^ 
hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words that were a perfeoC 
Babylonish jargon" to the Vjewildered Van Winkle, 

The appearance of Hip, with his long grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and chil- 
dren that had gathered at his heels, soon attracted tlie attention of 
the tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from 
head to foot with great curiosity. The orator oustled up to him, and 
drawing him x^artly aside, inquired, on which side he voted? Rip 
stared in vacant stupidity Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, 
whether he was Federal or Democrat. Rip was equally at a lo£.s 
lo comprehend the question; when a knowinfir* self important old 
IliVING I — ^ 



31 SKETCH-BOOK, 

g^ntlemanj in a sharp cocked hat, made his way throup:h the crowd, 
putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and 
planting himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other 
resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it 
were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, what brought 
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his 
heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? 

** Alas ! gentlemen, " cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a pooY 
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God 
bless him V 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanaers— '' A tory 1 a tory 1 
a spy t a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" 

It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the 
cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity 
of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came there 
for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him 
that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of 
his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

** Well — who are they ? — name them." 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicho« 
las Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in 
a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ? why, he is dead and gone 
these eighteen years I There was a wooden tombstone in the church- 
yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too. " 

" Where's Brom Dutcher ? " 

'* Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; some 
say he was killed in the storming of Stony Point — others say he was 
drowned in the squall, at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know 
—he never came back again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 

*'He went off to the wars, too ; was a great militia general, and is» 
now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his hom» 
and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every 
answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, 
and of matters which he could not understand , war — Congress — Stony 
Point ! — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried 
out in despair, *' Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ?" 

"Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three. "Oh, to be 
sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himselt as he went 
up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. The 
poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst 
of his bewilderment the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was 
and what was his name? . 



BIP VAN" WINKLE, 88 

** God knows/*" exclaimed he at his wit's end ; '* Pm not myself — 
Pm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else, got 
into my shoes — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the moiin 
tain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and 
Pm changed, and I can't tell what's my name or who I am 1 " 

The by standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink signifi- 
cantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a 
whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow 
from doing mischief ; at the very suggestion of which, the selfim-l 
portant man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At/ 
this critical moment a fresh, comely woman passed through the throng 
to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in 
her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," 
cried she, "hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you.'* The 
name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all 
awakened a train of recollections in his mind. 

** What is your name, my good woman ? " asked he. 

*' Judith Gardenier." 

*' And your father's name?" 

** Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle ; it's twenty years 
since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been 
heard of since — his dog came home without him ; bat whether he 
Bhot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I 
was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it ^ith a falter- 
ing voice. 

*' Where's your mother? " 

Oh, she too had died but a short time since ' she broke a blood-ves- 
sel in a fit of passion at a New England peddler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, "n this intelligence. The 
honest man could c(mtain himself no longer. He caught his daughter 
and her child in his arms *' I am your father 1 " cried he — " young 
Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van Winkle now 1 — Does nobody know 
poor Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among 
the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face 
for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough \ it is Rip Van Winkle — it 
is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor.— Why, where have 
you been these twenty long years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to 
him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it ; 
some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues m their 
cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when 
the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the cor 
ners of his mouth, and shook his head— upon which there was a gea 
era! shakiug of the head throughout the assemblage. 



«** 



36 SKETCH-BOOK. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Yan- 
derdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a de- 
scendant of the historian of that name, wLo wrote one of the earliest 
accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of 
the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and tradi- 
tions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corrobo- 
rated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the com- 
pany that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, 
that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange be-- 
ings. That it was athrmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first 
discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there, every 
twenty years, with his crew of the Half -Moon, being permitted in this 
way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father 
had once seen them in there old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pines 
in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one 
summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of 
thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to 
the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him 
home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a 
stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of 
the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and 
heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the iree, he 
was employed to work on the farm ; but evinced a hereditary disposi- 
tion to attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits, he soon found many of 
his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear 
of time ; and preferred making friends among the riising generation, 
with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age 
when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once 
more on the bench at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
j)atriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the 
war." It wa« some time before he could get into the regular track ot 
gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taking place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolu- 
tionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England 
— and that, instead of being a subject of his majesty George the Third, 
he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no 
politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impres- 
sion on him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he 
had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily, that 
was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and 
could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny 
of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however. 



ENGLISH WBITEBS ON AMERlGA. 31 

he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; 
whicli might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate oi 
joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doo- 
little's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every 
time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so recently 
awaked. It at last settled do^yn precisely to the tale I have related, 
and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood but knew it by 
heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted 
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on 
which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, how-= 
ever, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they 
never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaats- 
kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of 
nine-pins ; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the 
neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

Note. The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. 
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick 
der Rothbart and the Kypphauser mountain ; the subjoined note, however, 
which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated 
with his usual fidelity. 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but neverthe- 
less I give it my full behef, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements 
to have been very subject to marvelous events and appearances. Indeed, I 
have heard many stranger stories than this in the villages along the Hudson, 
all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very 
venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other 
point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the 
bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country 
justice and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, 
therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt." 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 

Methinks I see in my mind a noble puissant nation, rousing herself like a 
strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; methinks I see her as 
an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full 
midday Ibeam. 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press 

II 6 with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary ani- 
inosity daily growing up between England and America. Great curi- 
osity has been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and 
the London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the 
Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowl 
edge ; and so successful have they been that, notwithstanding the con- 
f tant intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning 



a8 8KETCS-B0OK. 

whom the great mass of the British public have less pure informatioB, 
or entertain more numerous prejudices. 

English travelers are the best and the worst in the world. Where 
no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for 
profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful and graphical 
descriptions of external objects ; but when either the interest or repu- 
tation of their own country comes in collision with that of another, 
they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity and 
candor, in the indulgence of splenetic remark and an illiberal spirit 
of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more remote 
the country described. I would place implicit confidence in an Eng- 
lishman's description of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile , 
of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior of India ; or of 
any other tract which other travelers might be apt to picture out with 
the illusions of their fancies. But I would cautiously receive his 
account of his immediate neighbors, and of those nations with which 
he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be dis- 
posed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the 
worst kmd of English travelers. While men of philosophical spirit 
and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack the 
poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs 
of barbarous nations, with which she can have no permanent inter» 
course of profit or pleasure, it has been left to the broken-down trades- 
man, the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Man- 
chester and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. 
From such sources she is content to receive her information respecting 
a country in a singular state of moral and physical development ; a 
country in which one of the greatest x">olitical experiments in the his- 
tory of the world is now performing, and which presents the most 
profound and momentous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America is not 
a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contemplation are too 
vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet 
in a state of fermentation ; 'it may have its f rothiness and sediment, 
but its ingredients are sound and wholesome ; it has already given 
proofs of powerful and generous qualities ; and the whole promises to 
settle down into sometliing substantially excellent. But the causes 
vv^hich are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indica- 
tions of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind observ- 
ers, who are only affected by the little asperities incident to its present 
situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface of things ; 
of those matters which ^ome in contact with their private interests and 
personal gratifications. They miss some of the snug conveniences and 
petty comforts which belong to an old. highly- finished, and over-pop^ 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. . 89 

ulous state of society ; where tlie ranks of useful labor are crowded, 
and manj earn a painful and servile subsistence, by studying the very 
caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, how- 
ever, are all-important in the estimation of narrow minds, which either 
do not perceive or will not acknowledge that they are more than coun- 
terbalanced among us by great and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unreasonable 
expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to 
themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded^ and the 
natives were lacking in sagacity, and where they were to become 
strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen but easy manner. 
The same weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations pro- 
duces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become embittered 
against the country on finding that there, as everywhere else, a man 
must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; 
and must contend with the common difficulties of nature and the 
shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or from the 
prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent 
among my countrymen, they may have been treated with unwonted 
respect in America ; and, having been accustomed all their lives to 
consider themselves below the surface of good society, and brought 
up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogant on the 
common boon of civility ; they attribute to the lowliness of others 
their own elevation, and underrate a society where there are no arti- 
ficial distinctions, and where by any chance such individuals as them- 
selves can rise to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming from such 
sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would be received 
with caution by the censors of the press ; that the motives of these 
men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and observation, 
and their capacities for judging correctly, would be rigorously scru- 
tinized, before their evidence was admitted, in such sweeping extent, 
against a kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and 
it furnishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can 
surpass the vigilance with which English critics will examine the 
credibility of the traveler who publishes an account of some distant 
and comparatively unimportant country. How warily will they com- 
pare the measurements of a pyramid, or the description of a ruin ; and 
how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of 
merely curious knowledge ; while they will receive, with eagerness 
and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and ob- 
scure writers, concerning a country with which their own is placed in 
the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they will G^^n make 
these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to enlarge, '^ith a zeaj 
and an ability worthy of a more generous cause. 



40 SKETCH-BOOK. 

I sliall not, liowever, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed topic ; 

nor should I have adverted to it but for the undue interest apparently 
,aken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which I 
apprehend it might produce upon the national feeling. We attach 
too much consequence to these attacks. They cannot do us any essen- 
tial injury. The tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be woven 
round us are like cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. 
Oar country continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another 
falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we live a 
whole volume of refutation. All the writers of England united, if we 
could for a moment suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy 
a combination, could not conceal our rapidly growing importance and 
matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are owing, 
not merely to physical and local, bat also to moral causes ; to the po- 
litical liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the prevalence of 
sound, moral, and religious principles, which give force and sustained 
energy to the character of a people ; and which, in fact, have been the 
acknowledged and wonderful supporters of their own national power 
and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England t 
Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she 
has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in the opinion of England 
alone that honor lives, and reputation has its being. The world at 
large is the arbiter of a nation's fame ; with its thousand eyes it wit- 
nesses a nation's deeds, and from their collective testimony is national 
glory or national disgrace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little importance 
whether England does us justice or not ; it is, perhaps, of far more 
importance to herself. She is instilling anger and resentment into the 
bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its growth and strengthen 
with its strength. If in America, as some of her writers are laboring 
to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival and a gi- 
gantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having provoked 
rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-pervading 
influence of literature at the present day, and how much the opinions 
and passions of mankind are under its control. The mere contests of 
the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in the flesh, and it is 
the pride of the generous to forgive and forget them ; but the slan- 
ders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest 
spirits ; they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly 
sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one 
overt act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists, most 
c»'mmon''v, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a predisposition to take 
offense, i'race these to their cause, and how often will they be found 
to originate in the mischievous effusions of mercenary writers, who, 
secure in their closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circu- 
late the venom that is to inflame tii© generous and the brava 



ENGLISH WBITEBS ON AMERICA. 4t 

I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it applies 
most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the 
press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; 
for the universal education of the poorest classes makes every individ- 
ual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the subject 
of our country that does not circulate through every part of it. There 
is not a calumny dropped from an English pen, nor an unworthy sar- 
casm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight good- 
will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possessing, then, as 
England does, the fountain-head from whence the literature of the 
language flows, how completely is it in her power, and how truly is 
it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and magnanimous feel- 
ing — a stream where the two nations might meet together, and drink 
in peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist in turning it to 
waters of bitterness, the time may come when she may repent her 
folly. The present friendship of America may be of but little mo- 
ment to her ; but the future destinies of that country do not admit of 
a doubt : over those of England there lower some shadows of uncer- 
tainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should those reverses 
overtake her from which the proudest empires have not been exempt 
— she may look back with regret at her infatuation, in repulsing from 
her side a nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus de- 
stroying her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of 
her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England that the people of the 
United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the 
errors which has been diligently propagated by designing writers. 
There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility and a general 
soreness at the illiberality cf the English press ; but, collectively 
speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of 
England. Indeed, at one time they amounted, in many parts of the 
Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of English. 
man was a passport to the «)nfidence and hospitality of every family, 
and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and th^ 
ungrateful. Throughout the country there was something of enthu> 
siasm connected with the idea of England. We looked to it with a 
hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land of our fore, 
fathers — the august repository of the monuments and antiquities oJ 
our race — the birth-place and mausoleum of the sages and heroes of 
our paternal history. After our own country, there was none in whose 
glory we more delighted — none whose good opinion we were more 
anxious to possess — none toward which our hearts yearned with such 
throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, when- 
ever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, 
it was the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that 
in the midst of hostilities they still kept alive the sparks of future 
friendship. 



42 SKETCH-BOOK 

Is all his to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred sym- 
pathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever ?— Perhaps it is 
for the best — it may dispel an illusion which might have kept us in 
mental vassalage ; which might have interfered occasionally with our 
true interests, and prevented the growth of proper national pride. 
But it is hard to give up the kindred tie ! — and there are feelings 
dearer than interest — closer to the heart than pride — that will still 
make us cast back a look of regret as we wander farther and farther 
from the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England 
may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part would 
be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindica- 
tion of our country, or the keenest castigation of her slanderers — but 
I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind, to retort sarcasm and in- 
spire prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our wri. 
ters. Let us guard particularly against such a temper ; for it v/ould 
double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy 
and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and 
unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted 
into petulance rather than warmed into indignation. If England is 
willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous ani- 
mosities of politics, to deprave the integrity uf her press, and poison 
the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She 
may deem it her interest to diffuse error and engender antipathy, for 
the purpose of checking emigration ; we have no purpose of the kind 
to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify ; 
for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and 
the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the 
gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that 
is impotent. Our retorts are never republished in England ; they fall 
short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peev- 
ish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our early 
literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What 
is still worse, they circulate through our own country, and, as far as 
they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the 
evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely 
by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the 
purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowh 
edge'; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejudice, will, 
fully saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid 
and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the sovereign 
mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all ques- 
tions of national concern with calm and unbiased judgments. From 
the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must have 



jsnglisb: writers on AMEHigA. 43 

more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate character, with her, 
than with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and 
excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjusting of these, our national 
measures must ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, we 
cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion 
or prepossession. 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion 
of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be 
our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of 
national antipathies, and exercising, not merely the overt acts of hos- 
pitality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from 
liberality of opinion. 

What have we to do with national prejudices ? They are the in- 
veterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant 
ages, when nations knew bufPlittle of each other, and looked beyond 
tlieir own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the con- 
trary, have sprang into national existence in an enlightened and phil- 
osophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the 
various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably stud- 
ied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of 
our birth, if we do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would 
the local superstitions, of the old world. 

But, above all, let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, so far 
as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excellent and 
amiable in the English character. We are a young people, necessa- 
rily an imitative one, and must take our examples and models, in a 
great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no coun- 
try more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her con- 
stitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people — 
their intellectual activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of 
thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and 
most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American 
character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent : for it is in tlie 
moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of British pros- 
perity are laid ; and however the superstructure may be time-worn, or 
overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admir- 
able in the materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice that so 
long has towered unshaken amid the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of onr writers, therefore, discarding all feelings 
of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality of British au- 
thors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice and with 
determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry 
with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate everything 
Pinglish, merely because it is English^ let them frankly point out what 
is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before 
us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound 



44 BKETGR-BOOK. 

deductions from ages of experience ; and wliile we avoid tlie errors 
and absurdities wlncli may have crept into the page, we may draw 
thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to strengthen, 
and to embellish oux national character. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
■ Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 

/ Domestic life in rural pleasures past 1 

' COWPEK. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English 
character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He 
must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and ham- 
lets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; he must wan- 
der through parks and gardens, along hedges and green lanes ; he 
must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and fairs and other 
rural festivals ; and cope with the people in all their conditions and 
all their habits and humors„ 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of 
the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent . 
society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peas- 
antry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gather- 
ing place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they 
devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayetyand dissipation, 
and having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the appar- 
ently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of 
society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most, retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different 
rptuks. 

The English,, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature and a keen 
relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This pas- 
sion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born 
and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. 
The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metrop- 
olis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in. the culti- 
vation of his flower garden and the maturing of his fruits, as he 
does in the conduct ofi his business and the success of a commer- 
cial enterprise. ' Even those less fortunate individuals who are 
doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and tratfic, contrive to 
have something that shall remind tkem of the green aspect of nature 
In the most dark and dingy quaxteie^ ©f the city, the drawing-room 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 48 

'»^^ndow resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; everj spot capable 
of veg-etation lias "its grass-plot and flower-bed ; and every square its 
mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with re- 
freshing verdure. ... 

Those who see the Englishman only in to\Yn ,ar^ apt to form an. 
unfavorable opinion of .his social character-. He is either absorbed 
in business or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissi- 
pate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He' has, 
therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever 
he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the 
moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to an- 
another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he 
shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morn- 
ing. An immense metropolis like London is calculated to malvo men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings, 
they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the 
cold superficies of character— -its, rich and genial qualities have no 
time to be warmed into a flow. ; ' - 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his nat- 
ural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and 
negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and 
becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him 
all the conveniences and elegances of polite life, and to banish its 
restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for 
studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, 
paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds 
are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, 
but, in the true spirit of hospitality, provides the nieans of enjoy- 
ment, and leaves every one to partake according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is 
called landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have studied Nature 
intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and 
harmonious combinations. Those charms which, in other countries, 
she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts 
of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces; 
and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English 
park scenery. Vast lawns that extend lilie sheets of vivid green, with 
here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foli- 
age. The solemn pomp of g,-roves and woodland glades, with the 
deer trooping in. silent herds across them ; the hare, bounding away 
to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. 
The brook, taught to- wind in natural meanderings or expand into a 
glassy lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with 
the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout ofoaming fear- 
lessly about its limpid waters : while some rustic temple or sylvan 



46 SKETCH-BOOK. 

statue, grown green and dank witli age, gives^ an air of classic sane- 
tity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what 
most delights me is the creative talent *with which the English dec- 
orate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habita- 
tion, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands 
of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 
discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pic- 
tures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into 
loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which pro- 
duce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice dis 
tribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the 
introduction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the partial opening to a 
peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water — all these are man- 
aged with a delicate tact,"^a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the 
magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favorite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country 
has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that 
descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched 
cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. 
The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower-bed 
bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, 
and hanging its blossoms about the lattice ; the pot of flowers in the 
window ; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat 
winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green sum- 
mer to cheer the fireside : — all these bespeak the influence of taste, 
flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of 
the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot- 
tage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the Eng- 
lish has had a great and salutary effect upon the national cliaracter. 
I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. In- 
stead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men of 
Irank in most countries, they exhibit an union of elegance and strength, 
fa robustness X)f frame and freshness of complexion, which I am in. 
I clined to attribute to their living so liiUch in -the open air, and pur- 
suing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country. Tha 
hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, 
and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even th«^ follies 
and dissipations of the town cannot easily prevert, and can never en- 
tirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society 
seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and ope- 
rate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between them do 
not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The 
manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 47 

farms, lias establislied a regular gradation from tlie noblemen, through 
the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial 
farmers, down to the laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus 
banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each inter- 
mediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, 
is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger 
estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in 
some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small 
farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the 
general system I have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads 
a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it 
leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the 
purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man may 
be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. ' The man of refine- 
ment, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the 
lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with 
the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, 
and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 
honest, heart-felt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the very 
amusements of the country bring men more and more together ; and 
the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I 
believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more 
popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any 
other country ; and why the latter have endured so many ex:cessive 
pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the 
unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be at- 
tributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the 
frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable de- 
scriptions of Nature tliat abound in the British poets — that have con- 
tinued down from " The Flower and the Leaf," of Chaucer, and have 
brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy 
landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they 
had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her 
general charms ; but the British poets have lived and reveled with 
her — they have' wooed her in her most secret haunts — they lisiva 
watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the 
breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could 
not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the hum- 
ble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it 
has been noticed by these impassionate and delicate observers, and 
wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

Theeifect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations 
Las been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the 
island is rather level, and would be monotonous were it not for the 



48 SKETUH-BOOK. 

cliarms of culture ; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with 
castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It 
does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little 
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique 
farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are 
continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, 
tlie eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of 
captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feel- 
ing that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas 
of order, of quiet, of sober well-established principles, of hoary usage 
and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of 
regular and peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architec- 
ture, with its low massive portal ; its gotliic tower ; its windows, 
rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation — its 
stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, an- 
cestors of the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, recording suc- 
cessive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow 
the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint 
irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes 
of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from 
the church- yard, across pleasant fields and along shady hedge-rows, 
according to an immemorable right of way — the neighboring village, 
with its venerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by trees, under 
which the forefathers of the present race have sported — the antique 
family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but look- 
ing down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene — all the se 
common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled se- 
curity, a hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and local attach- 
ments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of 
the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is send- 
ing its sober melody across tbe quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in 
their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, throng- 
ing tranquilly along the green lanes to chixrch ; but it is still more 
pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage 
doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellish- 
ments which their own hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affection in the 
domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues 
and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory remarks 
better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has 
depicted it with remarkable felicity. 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 



THE BROKEN HEART. 49 

In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 

Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof d shed. 

This western isle has long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : 

Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove 

(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard), 

Can center in a little quiet nest 

All that desire would fly for through the earth ; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 

A world enjoyed -, that wants no witnesses 

But its owb sharers and approving Heavea. 

That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

Smiles, though 't is looking at the sky.* 



THE BROKEN HEART. 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 't was nipped 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

Mtddleton. 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived the suscep- 
tibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay 
heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to 
treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and 
poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to tliinlt 
otherwise. They have convinced me that, however the surface of 
the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or 
cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dor- 
mant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when 
once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in 
their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go 
to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ?-|-I believe in 
broken hearts,;^ and the possibility of dying of disappointed love ! I 
do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; buO 
I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an 
early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him 
forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the em 
bellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the 
acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, 
and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a 
Iiistory of the affections. The heart is her world ; it is there her anv 

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann 
Kennedy, A, M. 



50 SKETCH-BOOK 

bition strives for empire — it is there lier avarice seeks for hidden 
treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure ; she em- 
barks her whole soul in the traffic of afEection ; and if shipwrecked, 
her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter 
pangs ; it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some pros- 
pects of felicity ; but he is an active being ; he may dissipate his 
thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into the 
tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappohitment be too full of 
painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it 
were, the wings of the morning, can ''fly to the uttermost parts of 
the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative 
life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; 
and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look 
for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in 
her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and 
sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow 
pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb , and none can 
tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove w ill clasp 
its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preymg 
on its vitals — so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world 
the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is 
always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes 
it to herself ; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of 
her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her 
peace. With her, the desire of her heart has failed — the great charm 
of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
' which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of 
life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the 
sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — " dry 
sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the 
slightest external injury. Look for her, after a little while, and you 
find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that 
one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, 
> should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." 
You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that 
laid her low — but no one knows the mental malady that previously 
sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove : 
graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying 
at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be mo&t 
fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, 
and shedding leaf by leaf ; until, wasted and perished away, it falls 
«ven in the stillness of the forest ; and as we muse over the beauti- 



THE BROKEN HEART. &i 

ful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect tlie blast or thunderbolt that 
could have smitten it vfith. decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self- 
neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they 
had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I 
could trace their deatlis through the various declensions of consump- 
tion, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the firi=t 
.symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind waj 
lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the country 
where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in 
which they were related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the 

Irish patriot : it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the 
troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed on a charge 
of treason. His fate made a deep imj)ression on public sympathy. 
He was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so every- 
thing that we are apt to lil^e in a young man. His conduct under 
trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid The noble indignation with 
w^hich he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the elo- 
quent vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, 
in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply into 
every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern pol- 
icy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to 
describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affec- 
tions of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late cele- 
brated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor 
of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim 
arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and 
danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently 
for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sym- 
pathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose 
'whole soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had 
the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being 
they most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one shut 
out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely j 
and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — so frightful, so dishonored ! 
There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the 
pang of separation — none of those tender though melancholy circum- 
stances that endear the parting scence — nothing to mrelt sorrow into 
ihose blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart 
in the parting hour of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred 
her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an 
exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind oflSlces 



52 SKBTCS-BOO^. 

of friends have readied a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, 
she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are 
a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and 
cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and dis- 
tinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of 
occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief and wean her from 
the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are 
some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul — that pene- 
trate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put 
forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of 
pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of soli- 
tude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of 
the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that 
mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not the 
song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. 
There can be no exhibition of fargone wretchedness more striking and 
painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a 
specter, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed 
out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woebegone, as 
if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary for- 
getfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms 
and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down 
on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a 
vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she be- 
gan with the capriciousness of a sickly heart to warble a little plain- 
tive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion is was so 
simple, so touching — it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness — 
that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every 
one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great in- 
terest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won 
! lie heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought 
that one so true to the dead could not but prove affectionate to the 
living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrecover- 
ably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, 
persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. 
He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her 
own destitute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the 
kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was unalter- 
ably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
might v/ear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable 
and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happpy one ; but 
nothing could cur© the silent and devouring melancholy that had ea 



f&E ART OF BOOK-MAKING. sa 

tered into her very soal. She wasted away, in a slow but "hopeless 
decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken 
heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed 
the following lines : 

She is far from the land where her yonng hero sleeps, 

And lovers around her are sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 

Erery note which he loved awakina: — 
Ah 1 little they think who delight in her strains, 
^ How the heart of the minstrel is breaking 1 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him— 

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh I make her a grave where the sunbeams rest. 

When they promise a glorious morrow : 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west 

From her own loved island of sorrow 1 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKINa. 

" If that severe doom of Synesius be true — ' it is a greater offense to steal deail 
men's labors than their clothes '—what shall become of most writers ? '' 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and 
how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems to 
have inflicted the curse of barrenness, yet teem with voluminous pro- 
ductions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 
objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out 
some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus 
have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to 
blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of 
the book-making craft and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the Brit- 
ish Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about 
a room in warm weather ; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of 
minerals, sometime studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mum- 
my, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to comprehend 
the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing 



54 SKETCH-BOOS:. 

about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant floor, 
at the end of a suit of apartments. It was closed, but every now and 
then it would open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed 
in black, would steal forth and glide through the rooms, without 
noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mys- 
tery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined 
to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown 
regions that lay beyond. The door yielded to my hand, with all that 
facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the ad- 
venturous knight- errant, I found myself in a spacious chamber, 
surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases and 
just under the cornice were arranged a great number of quaint black- 
looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed 
long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat many 
pale, cadaverous personages, poring intently over dusty volumes, 
rummaging among moldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of 
their contents. The most hushed stillness reigned through this mys- 
terious apartment; excepting that you might hear the racing of pens 
over sheets of paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these 
sages, as be shifted his position to turn over the pages of an old folio ; 
doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to 
learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write something on 
a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would 
appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room, 
and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the 
other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished voracity. I had no 
longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply en- 
gaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an 
old Arabian tale, of a philosopher who was shut up in an enchanted 
library, in the bosom of a mountain, that opened only once a year; 
where lie made the spirits of the place obey his commands, and bring 
him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the 
year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he 
issued forth so versed in forbidden lore as to be able to soar above 
the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the 
familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpre- 
tation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient 
for the purpose : — I found that these mysterious personages whom I 
had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and were in the 
very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading-room 
of the great ."'a-itish Library, an immense collection of volumes of all 
ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of 
which are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of obsolete litera- 
ture, therefore, do many modera aut^rs repair, and draw bucket* 



THE ART OF BOOE-MAEmG. 55 

full of classic lore, or " pure Englisli, undefiled," wherewith to swell 
their own scanty rills of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner and 
watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, 
bilious -looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten 
volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing 
some work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every 
man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous 
shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. I 
observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of 
his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner or whether he was 
endeavoring to keep ofE that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by 
uiiich pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than my- 
self to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright colored clothes, 
with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the 
appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller. After 
considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up 
of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was 
curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir 
and show of business than any of the others : dipping into various 
books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out 
of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon pre- 
cept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed 
to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron in Macbeth. 
It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's 
sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's blood," to make 
the medley ^' slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be implanted 
in authors for wise purposes ? May it not be the way in which Provi- 
dence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall 
be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable deCay of ilie 
works in which they were first produced ? We see that Nature has 
wisely though whimsically provided for the conveyance of seeds from 
clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds ; so that animals, which, 
in themselves, are little better than carrion, and apparently the law- 
less plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact. Nature's 
carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, 
the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete writers are 
caught up by these flights of predatory authors, and cast forth, again 
to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. Many 
of their works, also, undergo a khid of metempsychosis, and spring 
up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous history revives 
in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern play 
— and a sober philosophical treatise f ur ~ ishes the body for a whole 
series of bouncing and sparkling easayg* Tb^iS it is in the clearing of 



56 SKETCH-BOOK. 

our American woodlands ; where we burn down a forest of Btately 
pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in tlieir place ; and w« never 
see the prostrate trunk of a tree, moldering into soil, but it gives 
birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which 
ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of 
Nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be 
limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements 
shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and 
vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to 
posterity, and the species continue to flourish Thus, also, do authors 
beget authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good 
old age they sleep with their fathers ; that is to say, with the authors 
who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. 

While 1 was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned my 
head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the 
soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound quiet of 
the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wandering ; or to an 
unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which 
I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, 
however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene 
remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the 
details. I dreamed that the chamber was still decorated with the por- 
traits of ancient authors, but the number was increased. The long 
tables had disappeared, and iu place of the sage magi, I beheld a 
ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the 
great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth street. Whenever 
they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique 
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed , 
however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular 
suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a 
third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original 
rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling 
several moldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon con- 
trived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and 
having purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look ex- 
ceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance 
set at nought all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gen- 
tleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold 
thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of the reign of Queen 
Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an 
illuminated manuscript. Lad stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled 
from " The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having put Sir Philip 
Sidney's hat on one side of his head stiutted off with an exquis- 



TEE ABT OF BOOK-MAKING. 57 

ite &vt of vulgar elegance. A tliird, who was but o'f puny dimen- 
sions, liad bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from sev- 
eral obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing 
front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that 
he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a 
Latin author. 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only 
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their 
own ornaments without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to con-' 
template the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their prhi- 
ciples of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say 
that too many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the 
patch- work manner I have mentioned. I should not omit to speak of 
one genius, in drab breeches and giifcers, and an Arcadian hat, who 
had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings 
had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill and the soli- 
tudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and 
ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his head on one 
side, went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical air, "babbling 
about green fields." Bat the personage that most struck my atten- 
tion was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a re- 
markably large and square but bald head. He entered the room 
wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a 
look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick 
Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically away 
in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly resound- 
ed from every side, of "thieves ! thieves !" I looked, and lo ! the 
portraits about the wall became animated ! The old authors thrust 
out first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curi- 
ously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended, 
with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of 
scampering and hubbub that ensued batfles all description. The un- 
happy culprits endeavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On 
one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern 
professor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the ranks 
of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, 
raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson 
enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flan- 
ders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some 
time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as 
Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about 
him as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many 
men, whom I had been accustomed to look upon with awe and rev- 
erence, fain to steal, off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. 
Just then my eye was caught by the py^-^atical old gentleman in the 



58 SKETCH-BOOK 

Greek grizzled wig, wlio was scrambling away in sore affright with 
half a score of authors in full cry ,af ter him. They were close upou 
his haunches ; in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn some 
strip of raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, from his 
domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little pursy, ' ' chopp'd bald 
shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at 
his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned 
Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke 
the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end. The 
chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back 
into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the 
walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the 
whole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with astonishment. 
Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound 
never before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the 
ears of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had 
a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon 
found that the library was a kind of literary " preserve," subject to 
game laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without spe- 
cial license and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an 
arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, l^t I 
should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 



A EOYAL POET. 

Though your body be confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither cheek nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

fl-ETCHER. 

<JN a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made an 

excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical 
associations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough 
to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and m"assive 
towers like a mural crown around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves 
its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air upon 
the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of this voluptKous vernal kind 
which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament, fill- 



A itOTAL POET. 59 

ing tis mind witli music and disposing liim to quote poetry and 
dream of beauty. In wandering tlirougli tlie magnificent saloons and 
long-eclioing galleries of the castle, I passed witli indifference by 
whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in the 
chamber wKere hung the likenesses of the beauties that graced the 
gay court of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted 
with amorous half -disheveled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I 
blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which had thus enabled me to 
bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the "largdj 
green courts," with sunshine beaming on tlie gray walls and glancing 
along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the image of the 
tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his account of his loiter- 
iags about them in his stripling days, when enamored of the Lady 
Q-eraldine — 

With eyes cast up anto the maiden's tower. 

With easie sighs, such as men draw in love. 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient 
keep of the castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride and 
theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his 
youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has 
stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands 
on a mound which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and 
a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the armory, which is 
a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I 
was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which I was told 
had once belonged to James. From hence I was conducted up a stair 
case to a suit, of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied 
tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and 
fanciful amour which has woven into the web of his story the magi 
cal hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole Iiistory of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly 
romantic. At the tender age of eleven, he was sent from his home 
by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French court, to be 
reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure from the treach- 
ery and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was 
his mishap, in the course of his voyage, to fall into the hands of the* 
English, and he was detained a prisoner by Henry IV. , notwithstand-i 
ing that a truce existed between the two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many sorrows 
and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. 

" The news," we are told, " was brought to him while at supper, 
and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to 
give up the ghost into the hands of the servants that attended him. 
But being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and 
in three days died of hunger and grief , at Rothesay."* 

*JBachauan. 



60 SKETCH-BOOK. 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but, tbougli 
deprived of personal liberty, lie was treated witli tlie respect due to 
his rank. Care was taken to instruct liini in all tlie branches of use- 
ful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him those men- 
tal and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Per- 
haps in this respect his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled 
him to apply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, and 
quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those 
elegant tastes, which have given such a luster to his memory. The 
picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is 
I highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of ro- 
^mance than of a character in real history. He was well learned, we 
are told, " to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to 
sing and dance ; he was an expert mecliciner, right crafty in playing 
both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of music, and 
was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry."* 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, fit- 
ting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated to 
give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been a 
severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time 
of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of 
James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be 
visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some 
minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty ; 
others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of the poet to 
become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the captive 
bird, pours forth his soul in melody. • 

Have jou not seen the nightingale 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage. 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 

In that her lonely hermitage 1 

r Even there her charming melody doth prove 

That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.t 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irre- 
pressible, unconfinable ; that when the real v/orld is shut out, it can 
create a world for itself, and, with necromantic power, can conjure 
up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitule 
populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such was the 
world of pomp and pageant tliat lived round Tasso in his dismal cell 
at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; 
and we may conceive the " King's Quair," | composed by James dur- 

* Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 

+ Roger L'Estrange. % Quair, an old term for Botk. 



A BOTAL POET. 61 

ing his captivity at Windsor, as anotlier of those beautiful breakings 
forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 

The subject of his poem is his love for the lady Jane Beaufort, 
daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood-royal 
of England, of whom he became enamored in the course of his cap- 
tivity. What gives it peculiar value is that it may be considered a 
transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, and the story of his real 
loves and fortunes. It is not often tbat sovereigns write poetry, or 
that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common man 
to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, 
and seeking to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is 
a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competiton, which strips 
off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate down 
to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his own 
native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history 
of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple affections of human na- 
ture throbbing under the ermine. But James had learned to be a poet 
before he was a king ; he was schooled in adversity and reared in 
the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to 
parley with their hearts or to meditate thert mmds into poetry; and 
had James been brought up amid the adulation and gayety of a 
court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as 
the Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poeo. 
which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or 
which are connected with the apartment in the Tower. They have 
thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circum- 
stantial truth as to make the reader present with the captive in his 
prison and the companion of his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and of 
the incident that first suggested the idea of writing the poem. It was 
the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says, were 
twinkling as the fire in the high vault of heaven, and "Cynthia rins- 
ing her golden locks in Aquarius " — he lay in bed wakeful and rest- 
less, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he 
chose was Boetius's Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among 
the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his great 
prototype ChauCer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, 
it is evident that this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison; 
and, indeed, it is an admirable text-book for meditation under adver- 
sity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sor- 
row and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity the max- 
ims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple reason- 
ing, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various ills of 
life. It is a talisman whicli the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow. 



6^ BKETGE-BOO^, 

After closing the volume, lie turns its contents over in liis mind, 
and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, 
the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him 
even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to 
matins, but its sound chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems 
to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of 
poetic errantry, he determines to comply with this intimation ; he 
therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross, to im- 
plore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. 
There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is interest-^ 
ing, as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the simple 
manner in which v/hole trains of poetical thought are sometimes 
awakened and literary enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course or his poem he more than once bewailed the peculiar 
hardness of h^s fate, thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and 
shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the 
meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, how- 
ever, in his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of an amiable 
and social spirit, at being denied the indulgence of its kind and gen- 
erous propensities ; there is nothing in them harsh or exaggerated ; 
they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and are, perhaps, ren- 
dered more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely 
with those elaborate and iterated repinings which we sometimes meet 
with in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds, sickening under miser- 
ies of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an unoffend- 
ing world. James speaks of his privations with acute sensibility, but 
having mentioned them, passes on as if his manly mind disdained to 
brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth 
into complaint, however brief, we are aware how great must be the 
suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a 
romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of 
youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses and vigorous delights of 
life, as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glo- 
ries of art, when he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamentations 
.over his perpetual blindness. 

I Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might al- 
most have suspected that these lov/erings of gloomy reflection were 
meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story, and to contrast 
with that effalgence of light and loveliness, that exhilarating accom- 
paniment of bird, and song, and foliage, and flower, and all the revel 
of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is this 
scene in particular which throws all the magic of romance about the 
old castle keep. He has risen, he says, at daybreak, according to 
custom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. 
*' Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and 
remedy, ** for, tired of thought, and woe-begone," he had wandered 



A ROYAL POET, 63 

to the window to indulge the captive's miserable solace, of gaz- 
ing wistfully upon tlie world from which he is excluded. The win- 
dow looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the 
tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and green 
alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn 
hedges. 

How was there made fast by the tower^s walk, 

A garden f aire, and in the corners set, 
An arbour green with wandis long and small 

Eailed about, and so with leaves beset 
"Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, 

That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye, 

That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 

Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
And midst of every arbour might be seen 

The sharpe, grene, swete juniper. 
Growing so faire with branches here and there^ 

That as it seemed to a lyf without. 

The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small green twistist set 

-. The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung 

So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate 

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Eyght of their song — 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom, and he 
Interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his enam- 
ored feeling. 

Worship all ye that lovers be this May ; 

For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
And sing with us, away, winter, away, 

Come, surmner, come, the sweet season and sim« 

As he gazes on the scene and listens to the notes of the birds, h» 
gradually lapses into one of those tender and undefinable reveries, 
which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders 
what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which thus 
seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all 
nature into ecstacy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it 
be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most insignificant of beings, 
why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 

That love is of such noble myght and kynde ? 
Loving his folk, and such prosperitee. 

* I^j persojj. t Twistkt small boughs or twigs. 



64 " SKETCH-BOOK 

Is it of him, as we in books do find ; 
May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd : 

Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye 't 
Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 

For gift he be of so grele excellence 
That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I giltt to him, or done offence. 
That I am thral'd and birdis go at large ? 

jUa tie midst of liis iiiusing, as lie casts liis eyes downward, "he TDe 
lioids " the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he had seen 
It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty 
of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus suddenly upon his 
sight in a moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once 
captivates the fancy of the romantic prince and becomes the object of 
his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance to the early 
part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon and Arcite fall in 
love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their 
prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident 
which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James to dwell on 
it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in tlie pic- 
turesque and minute manner of his master, and being, doubtless, 
taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He 
dwells with the fondness of a lover on every article of her apparel, 
from, the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that 
confined her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small or- 
feverye"! about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a 
heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burning upon her 
white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up, to enable her 
to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female 
attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells, 
probably the small Italian hound, of exquisite symmetry, which was 
a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient 
times. James closes his description by a burst of general eulogium : 

In her was youth, beauty with humble port, 

Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature, 
God better knows than my pen can report. 

Wisdom, largesse,§ estate, I! andcunning<| sure 
xn every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

Tlie departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to this 
transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illusion 

* Setten, incline. + Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. % Wrought gold. 

, Largesse, bounty. II Estate, dignity. *{ Cunning, discretion. 

flOTB.— The language of the onotrtions is generally modernized. 



A BOTAL POET. 65 

♦ 

that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity, and 
he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by 
this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through the long and 
weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening ap- 
proaches and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had "bid fare- 
well to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, 
laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of 
love and sorrow, until gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of 
the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," into a/ 
vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is 
allegorically shadowed out the history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance he rises from his stony pillow, and 
pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, he questions his 
spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, all that has 
passed before his dreamy fancy has been conjured up by preceding 
circumstances, or whether it is a vision intended to comfort and as- 
sure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some token 
may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his 
slumbers. 

Suddenly a turtle-dove, of the purest whiteness, comes flying in at 
the window and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of 
red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written in letters of gold 
the following sentence : 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring, 

The newis glad, that blissful is and sare, 
Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads it W^th 
rapture, and this he says was the first token of his succeeding happi- 
ness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady 
Jane did actually send him a token of her favor in this romantic way, 
remains to be determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. 
He concludes his poem by intimating that the promise conveyed in the 
vision, and by the flower, is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty) 
and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adventures 
in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact and how much, 
the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture ; do not, how- 
ever, let us always consider whatever is romantic as incompatible 
with real life, but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have 
noticed merely such parts of the poem as wei-e immediately connected 
with the tower, and have passed over a large part which was in the 
allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of 
course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its 
golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day, but it is 
IRYINa 1—3 _-/ - . 



66 SKETCH-BOOK. 

impossible not to be charmed witli tlie genuine sentiment, tbe deliglit- 
ful artlessness and iirbanity whicb prevail tlirougliout it. The de- 
scriptions of Nature, too, with which it is embellished, are given with 
a truth, a discrimination and a freshness, worthy of the most culti> 
vated period of the arts. 

As an amatory poem it is edifying, in these days of coarser think- 
ing, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy which 
pervade it, banishing every gross thought or immodest expression, 
and presenting female loveliness clothed in all its chivalrous attributes 
of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

' James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, and 
was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed, 
in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters, and in 
some parts of his poem we find traces of similarity to their produc- 
tions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always, how- 
ever, general features of resemblance in the works of contemporary 
authors, which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the 
times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they 
incorporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts 
which are current in society, and thus each generation has some fea- 
tures in common, characteristic of the age in which it lives. James 
in fact belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary history, 
and establishes the claims of his country to a participation in its prim- 
itive honors. While a small cluster of English writers are con- 
stantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scot- 
tish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently 
worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote but 
never-failing luminaries who shine in the highest firmament of lit- 
erature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright 
dawning of British poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish history 
(though the manner in which it has of late been woven with captivat- 
ing fiction has made it a universal study) may be curious to learn 
something of the subsequent history of James and the fortunes of 
his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his 
captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the Court 
that a connection with the blood-royal of England would attach him 
to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and 
crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied 
him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains hav- 
ing taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long inter- 
regnum, to strengthen themselves in their possessions, and place them- 
selves above the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis 
of his power in the affection of his people. He attached the lower 
orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the temperate and equa- 



A ROYAL POET. 67 

ble administration of justice, the encouragement of tlie arts of peace, 
and the promotion of everytliing that could diffuse comfort, compe- 
tency, and innocent enjoyment, through the liumblest ranks of so- 
ciety. He mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise; 
visited their firesides ; entered into their cares, their pursuits, and 
their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and 
how they could best to patronized and improved ; and was thus an 
all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the meanest 
of his subjects. Having in this 2"enerous manner made himself strongl 
in the hearts of the common* people, he turned himself to curb th^ 
power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous im- 
munities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty 
of flagrant offenses ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to 
the crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, 
but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy 
was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his 
own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself 
for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson. Sir 
Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham and others of less 
note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bed-chamber at the 
Dominican convent near Perth, v/here he was residing, and barbar- 
ously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, 
rushing to throw her tender body between him and the sword, was 
twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the as- 
sassin ; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from his per- 
son that the murder was accomplished. 

It was the recollection of t^is romantic tale of former times, and of 
the golden little poem, which had its birth-place in this tower, that 
made me visit the old pile wilh more than common interest. The 
suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as 
if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and ro- 
mantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted 
chambers where he had composed his poem ; I leaned upon the win- 
dow and endeavored to. persuade myself it was the very one where he 
had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he 
had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous 
month ; the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid 
melody : everytliing was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth 
the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate 
the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly 
over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his 
desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still 
flourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was once the 
moat of the keep, and though some parts have been separated by 
dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, 
as in the days of James ; and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and 



68 SKETCH-BOOK. 

retired. There is a cliarm about tlie spot that has been printed by 
the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations 
of the poet, which is heightened rather than impaired by the lapse 
of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry, to hallow every place in 
which it moves ; to breathe round nature an odor more exquisite than 
the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than 
the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior 
and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as the com- 
panion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, stoop- 
ing from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song 
in the paths of common life. He was the first to cultivate the vigor- 
ous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since been so pro- 
lific of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit. He carried 
with him into the sterner regions of the north all the fertilizing arts 
of southern refinement. He did everything in his power to win his 
countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which soften and 
refine the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- 
ness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, 
unfortunately for the fullness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; 
one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," 
shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic 
sports and pastimes which constitute such a source of kind and so- 
cial feeling among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and 
happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. He contributed 
greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his tender sen- 
timent and elegant taste arc said to exist in those witching airs, still 
piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He 
has thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious and en- 
dearing in the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in 
song, and floated his name down to after-ages in the rich stream of 
Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling at 
my heart, as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have 
visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit 
the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion 
than when contemplating the old tower and the little garden at 
Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and 
the Royal Poet of Scotland. 



THE COTTNTRT CHVECM. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 

A gentleman ! 
What o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? 
Or lists of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggae's Bush. 

There are few plsCces more favorable to tlie study of cliaracter 
tlian an Englisli country church. I was once passing a few weeks at 
the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the appear- 
ance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of those 
rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to 
English landscape. It stood in the midst of a county filled with an- 
cient families, and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the con- 
gregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were 
encrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed 
through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned 
in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of 
knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their 
ejBBgies in colored marble. On every side, the eye was struck with 
some instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial which 
human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the 
most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, 
who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with 
richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon the 
pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, 
and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, 
who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had 
a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all 
the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox -hunter 
in the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing 
anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, and make one at 
the hunting dinner. 

^ Under the ministry of such a pastor I found it impossible to get 
into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so having, 
like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, 
by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's 
threshold, I occupied myself b^ making observations on my neigh- 
bors. * 

I was as yet a stmnger in England, and curious to notice the man- 
ners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the 
least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to re- 
spect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a 



70 BKETCE-BOOK. 

nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. 
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appearance. 
They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on 
foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest man- 
ner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories 
of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beauti- 
fully fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same time 
a frank cheerfulness and engaging affability. Their brothers were 
tall and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but sim. 
ply ; with strict neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism 
or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with 
that lofty grace and noble frankness which bespeak free-born souls 
that have never been ciiecked in their growth by feelings of inferior- 
ity. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity that never 
dreads contact and communion with others, however humble. It is 
only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive and shrinks from 
every touch. I was pleased to see the manner in which they would 
converse with the peasantry about those rural concerns and field 
sports in which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. In 
these conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one part 
nor servility on the other ; and you were only reminded of the differ- 
ence of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen who had 
amassed a vast fortune, and having purchased the estate and m-ansion 
of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume 
all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family 
always came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically 
along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in 
silver radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could 
possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly 
laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gor- 
geous liveries, with huge bouquets and gold-headed canes, lolled be- 
hind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with a peculiar 
stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, arched 
their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than <^ommon 
horses ; either because they had got a little of the family fc3jir»g or 
were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which this splendia pageant 
was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There was a vast 
effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall ; — a great 
smacking of the whip ; straining and scrambling of the horses; glist- 
ening of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was 
the moment of triumph and vain-glory to the coachman. The horses 
were urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. They 
threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every 



THE COUNTRY CHUBGH. 71 

step. The crowd of villagers, sauntering quietly to ctiurcli, opened 
precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On 
reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that 
produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their 
haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, open 
the door, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent 
on earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
lound red face from out the door, looking about him with the pomp- 
ous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'change, and shake the stock- 
market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, 
followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her 
composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoy- 
ment. The world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She 
had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything 
was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about and visiting 
and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long 
Lord Mayor's day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They certainly 
were handsome ; but had a supercilious air that chilled admiration, 
and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashion- 
ables in dress, and though no one could deny the richness of their 
decorations, yet their appropriateness might be questioned amid the 
simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily from the 
carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed 
dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, 
that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until they 
met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their countenances im- 
mediately brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound 
and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed 
they were but slight acquaintances. 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came 
to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed 
in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which 
marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept entirely 
by themselves, eying every one askance that came near them, as if 
measuring his claims to respectability ; yet they were without con- 
versation, except the exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They 
even moved artificially, for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice 
of the day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and free- 
dom. Art had done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, 
but Nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vul- 
garly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, and 
had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the 
true gentleman. 

\ have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two 



72 SEETGH^BOOK 

families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be 
met with in this country — the unpretending great, and the arrogant 
little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by 
true nobility of soul ; but I have remarked, in all countries where 
these artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are al- 
ways the most courteous and unassuming. Those who are well as- 
sured of their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others : 
whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which 
thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their 
behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was quiet, serious, 
and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devo- 
tion, but rather a respect for sacred things and sacred places insep- 
arable from good -breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a 
perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual conscious- 
ness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural 
congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. 
He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself ; standing 
bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that might 
be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was one of these 
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of devotion and 
loyalty ; who consider the Deity, some how or other, of the govern- 
ment party, and religion ' ' a very excellent sort of thing, that ought 
to be countenanced and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way o$ 
3xample to the lower orders, to show them that though so great and 
wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle- 
fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking his 
lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it "excellent food for the 
poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the sev- 
eral exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as 
the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting 
with the country people as they went. The others departed as they 
came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the 
gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, 
and the glittering of harness. The norses started off at almost a bound : 
tho villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a 
cloud of dust, and ^)ic aspiring family was wrapped out of si^hi in a 
Vvhiriwind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SOm 75 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 

P'tt^e olde age, within whose siverhaires 
Honor and reverence evermore have raign'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

During my resl(ience in the country I used frequently to attend ai 
the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its moldering monuments, 
its dark oaken panell^jg, all reverend with the gloom of departed 
years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sun- 
day, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose — such a pensive quiet 
reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed 
down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently spring- 
ing up within us. 

Sweet day, so pure, so cpini, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky 1 

I cannot lay claim to the merit of heing a devout man ; but there 
are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful 
serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and if not a 
more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, than on any 
other day of the seven. 

But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the 
world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. 
The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and pros- 
trate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old woman, bend- 
ing under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces 
of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decent 
pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in 
the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had 
been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village 
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have 
survived all love, all friendship, all society ; and to have nothing left 
her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending 
her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, which 
her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which 
she evidently knew by heart ; I felt persuaded that the faltering 
voice of that poor woman rose to heaven far before the responses of 
the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches ; and this was so 
delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a 
knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and then 
wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The 
church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval 
With itself Its tall Gothic &pire shot up lightly from among them, 



74 '^^ BKETCE-BOOK 

witli rooltg and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there 
one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a 
grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected cor- 
ners of the churchyard, where, by the number of nameless graves 
around, it would appear that tlie indigent and friendless were huddled 
into the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only 
son of a poor widow. While I was meditating upon the distinctions 
of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll 
of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the 
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do, A coffin 
of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne 
by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of 
cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of 
affected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered 
after the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor 
old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She 
was supported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort 
her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some 
children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with 
unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity, 
on the grief of the mourner 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from 
the church-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, 
Rnd attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of 
charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pen- 
niless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and 
unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the 
church door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave ; and 
never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching cere- 
mony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On 
it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased — " George Somers, 
aged 26 years," The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at 
the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer ; 
but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convul- 
sive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last i'elics of hei^ 
son with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the eartn. j^ere 
was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of 
grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones of business ; 
the striking of spades into sand and gravel : which, at the grave of 
those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around 
seemed to waken the mother from a wa-etched reverie. She raised 
her glazed eyes, and looked about wdth a faint wildness. As the men 
approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung 
her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman who 



TEE WIDOW AND HER SOX 7S 

attended lier took her by the arm and endeavored to raise her from 
the earth, and to whisper something like consolation — "Nay, nay — 
nay, now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake 
her head, and wring her hands as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth , the creaking of the cords 
seemed to agonize her ; but when, on some accidental obstruction, 
there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother 
burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond 
the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my eyes 
filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in stand- 
ing by and gazing idly on thi« scene of maternal anguish. I wandered 
to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeraj 
train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painf ally quitting the grave, 
leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, 
and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. 
What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich? They have friends 
to soothe — pleasures to beguile-^a world to divert and dissipate their 
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young? Their growing minds 
soon close above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the 
pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twine around new 
objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appli- 
ances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but 
a wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the sor- 
lows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only 
son, the last solace of her years ; — these are indeed sorrows which 
make us feel the impotency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way home- 
ward, I met with the woman who had acted as comforter ; she was 
just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habita- 
tion, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affect- 
ing scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village frdm child- 
hood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various 
rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported 
themselves creditably and comfo-rtably, and led a happy and blame- 
less life. They had one son who had grown up to be the staff and 
pride of their age. — " Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, '• he was such 
a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so 
dutiful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sun- 
day, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting 
his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on 
George's arm than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might 
well be prs?ad of him, for a ^finer lad there was not in the country 
rou»4." 



76 . bks:tch-booe. 

Unfortunately the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and 
agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small 
craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long in this 
employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to 
sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they 
could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, 
who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, and sunk 
into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, 
could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still 
there was a kind of feeling toward her throughout the village, and a cer- 
tain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied 
for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she was 
permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost help- 
less. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty 
productions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and 
then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which 
these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vege- 
tales for her repast, when she heard the cottage-door which faced the 
garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be 
looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's 
clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken 
by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward her, 
but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on his knees before 
her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon Mm with 
a vacant and wandering eye — '* Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you 
know your son ! your poor boy George ? " It was, indeed, the wreck 
of her once noble lad ; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and 
foreign imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs home- 
ward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where 
sorrow and joy were so completely blended : still he was alive ! — he 
was come home ! — he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old 
age 1 Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; and if anything had 
been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native 
cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pal- 
let on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, 
and he never rose from it again. 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, 
crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their 
humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk — he 
could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant •, 
and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride in man- 
hood ; t\At softens the heart and brings it back to the feelings of in- 
fancy Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness 
and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect 



THE WIDOW AND EEIt SON. 77 

and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought on the mother 
" that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and admin- 
istered to his helplessness ? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in 
the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of 
the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by 
danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. 
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender 
every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame and exult 
in his prosperity ; — and if misfortune overtake him, he will be the 
dearer to her from misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, 
she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all 
the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and 
none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He 
could not endure his mother from his sight ; if she moved away, his 
eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching 
him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, 
and looking anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when 
he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the 
tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to 
visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, 
and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good 
feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do everything that 
the case admitted ; and as the poor know best how to console each 
other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my sur- 
prise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accus- 
tomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her 
son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between 
pious affection and utter poverty : a black ribbon or so — a faded black 
handkerchief — and one or two more such humble attempts to express 
by outward signs that grief which passes show, — When I looked 
round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold 
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over de- 
parted pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and 
sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises 
of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument 
of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congre- 
gation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to 
render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. 
It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the 
course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat 
at church, and bef«r« I left the neighborhood I heard, with a feeling 



78 BKETGE-BOOK, 

of satisfaction, that slie had quietly breathed her last, and had gone 
to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is never known, 
and friends are never parted. 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 

A SHAKESPEAREAN RESEARCH. 

A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have 
heard my great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it 
was an old proverh when his great-grandfather was a child, tiiat "it was a good 
wind that blew a man to the wine." Mother Bombib. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the mem- 
ory of saints by votive lights burned before their pictures. The 
popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number- oi 
these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to molder in the darkness of 
his little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its 
blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of adoration 
is lavished at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The 
wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot, 
his seven-branched candlestick ; and even the mendicant pilgrim is 
by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, 
unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence 
is, in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and 
I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of coun- 
tenance by the officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every 
writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his 
character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The 
commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations ; 
the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their 
notes at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler brings 
'his farthing rush-light of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of 
j incense and of smoke. 

As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I 
thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the mem- 
ory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely 
puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself 
anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; every doubtful line 
had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed beyond the 
reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages they had all been amply 
praised by previous admirers : nay^ so completely had the bard, of 
laie, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic, that i* 



TEE BOARS HEAD TAVEEIT, EASTUREAP, 79 

was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a 
beauty. 

In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages, when 
I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and was in a 
moment completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head 
Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, 
and with such force and consistency are the characters sustained, that 
they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages 
of real life. To few readers does it occur that these are all ideal crea-j 
tions of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of) 
merry roysters ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A 
hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero 
of history that existed a thousand years since : and if I may be ex- 
cused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I 
would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of ancient chron- 
icle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? 
They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an acre ; or 
they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf ; or they 
have furnished examples of hair-brained prowess, which I have 
neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack 
Falstaif ! — kind Jack Falstaff ! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! has enlarged the 
boundaries of human enjoyment : he has added vast regions of wit 
and good-humor, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has be- 
queathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make man- 
kind merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me: "I will make a pilgrimage to 
Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old Boar's Head 
Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legend- 
ary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, there will 
be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal with their 
mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling of the empty cask, once 
filled with generous wine," 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I for- 
bear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered in 
my travels, of the haunted regions of Cock lane ; of the faded glories 
of Little Britain and the parts adjacent ; what perils I ran in Catea- 
ton street and Old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall and its two 
stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city and the terror of all 
unlucky urchins ; and how I visited London Stone and struck my 
staff upon it, in imitation of that arch-rebel. Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, 
that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the 
streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding lane bears testimony even 
at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, " was always 
famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef 



80 SKETCH-BOOK, 

roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals ; tliere was clattering of 
pewter pots, liarpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the 
scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The 
madcap royster has given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clat- 
tering of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of 
carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is 
heard, save haply the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chant- 
ing the eulogy of deceased mackerel. 

I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only 
relict of it is a boar's head, carved in relief stone, which formerly 
served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line 
of two houses which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little empire of good fellowship I was re- 
ferred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born 
and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable 
chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back 
parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about eight feet 
square, laid out as a flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite af- 
forded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow 
candles ; the two views, which comprised in all probability her pros- 
pects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, 
and had her being, for the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from 
London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her opin- 
ion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet, with all 
this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom and that liberal com- 
municative disposition which I have generally remarked in intelligent 
old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. 
She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from 
the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol until the 
great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burned down. It 
was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and 
sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, 
bad measures, and other iniquities which are incident to the sinful 
race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by be- 
queathing the tavern to St. Michael's cLurch, Crooked lane, toward 
the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings 
were regularly held there ; bat it was observed that the old Boar 
ne^er held up his head under church government. He gradually de- 
clined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The 
tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a pic- 
ture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's church, which stood 
just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my deter- 
mination ; so, having informed myself of the abode of the sexton, I 
took my leave of the venerable chroaicler of Eastcheap, my visit 



THE BOAM'S HEAD TA VERN, EA8TCHEAP. 81 

having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, 
and furnished an important incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to ferret out 
the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked lane, 
and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, witli w^hich 
this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten 
chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small 
court, surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about 
as much of the face of heaven as a community of frogs at the bot-i 
tom of a well. The sexton was a meek , acquiescing little man, of a 
bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, 
if encouraged, would now and then venture a small pleasantry, such' 
as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of 
high church wardens, and other mighty men of the earth, I found 
him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's 
angels ; discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and settling 
the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale ; for the lower 
classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without 
the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings, I ar- 
rived at the moment when they had finished their ale and their argu- 
ment, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order ; so, 
having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission 
to accompany them. 

The church of St, Michael's, Crooked lane, standing a short dis- 
tance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fish- 
mongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, 
and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a 
mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as much rever- 
ence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contem- 
plating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlbor- 
ough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside while thus speaking of illustrious men, to 
observe that St, Michael's, Crooked lane, contains also the ashes of 
that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, who so man- 
/fully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hera 
worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor on record 
famous for deeds of arms ; the sovereigns of Cockney being generally 
renowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* 

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy, 
whic2j, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. 

Hereunder lyth a man of fame, 
William "VTalworth callyd by name ; 
Fishmonger he was in lyfEtlme here, 
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare ; 
Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
ipiew Jacl? Straw in Kyng Richard's sight, 



83 ~ SEETCE-BOOK. 

Adjoining tlie cliurch, in a small cemetery, immediately under the 
back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tomb- 
stone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at the tavern. It is jnovc 
nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his 
bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his cus- 
tomers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, the 
little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and informed 
me, in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, 
when the wind was unruly, howling and whistling, banging about 
doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that the living 
were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead coiild not sleep 
quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which happened 
to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known 
call of " waiter," from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appear- 
ance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish clerk was sing- 
ing a stave from the "mirrie garland of Captain Death" ; to the dis- 
comfiture of sundry train-band captains, and the conversion of an 
infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and 
was never known to twist the truth afterward, except in the way of 
business. 

I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge myself for the 
authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known that the 
churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much in- 
fested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of the 
Cock lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the 
Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their 
wits. 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a 
worthy successor to the nimble- tongued Francis, who attended upon 
the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his " anon, 
anon, sir," and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty ; for 
Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, 
flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; whereas, honest 
Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the sound- 

For which act done, and trew entent, 
The Kyng made him knyght incontinent ; 
' And gave him armes, as here you see. 

To declare his fact and chivaldrie : 
He left this lyfl the year of our God 
Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd. 

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stow : 
**Whereas," said he, " It n at h been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion that the 
rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord 
Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this 
rash conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The 
principal leaders, or captains, of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; 
the second was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc." Stow's London. 



THE BOARS HEAD TAYEUN, EASTCHEAP, 83 

ness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dig- 
nitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by 
the sober virtues of the tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist 
look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness 
of a man brought up among full hogsheads ; and the little sexton 
corroborated his opinion by a significant wink and a dubious shake 
of the head. 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the his- 
tory of tapsters, fishmongers, and lord mayors, yet disappointed me 
in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tav- 
ern, No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. 
" Marry and amen ! " said I, " here endeth my research ! " So I was 
giving the matter up, with the air of a bafiled antiquary, when my 
friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in everything relative 
to the old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, 
which had been handed down from remote times, when the parish 
meetings had been held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in 
the parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of 
the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighborhood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Mile 
lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by Mastei 
Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock'' of the establishment. It is 
one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city, and 
form the center of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We 
entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling ; for in these 
close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle 
down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable 
twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing a 
table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed 
that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day 
equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room 
was a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting, A 
row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along 
the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. 
There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and 

* As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admoni- 
tion of delinquent tapsters. It is no doubt the production of some choice spidt^ 
who once frequented the Boar's Head. 

Bacchus, to give the toping world suiT)rise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defied 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined. 
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots. 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependena^ 
Fray copy Bob, in mieaeure and atteudanfie. 



84 BKETCE-BOO&. 

hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. "The 
place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of order 
and neatness which bespeaks the superintendence of a notable Eng- 
lish housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might 
be either fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the 
boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered 
into a little misshapen back room, having at least nine corners. It 
was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, 
and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently 
appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentle- 
man, in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating 
on a half -empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of 
profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball 
was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for 
that paragon of hostesses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted 
with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrying up-stairs to the archives 
of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish-club were de- 
posited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with them in her 
hands. 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, of 
gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their 
stated meetings, since time immemorial ; and which was never suf- 
fered to be profaned by vulgar hands or used on common occasions. 
I received it with becoming reverence ; but what was my delight at 
beholding on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest ! 
There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and be- 
fore the door was to be seen the whole convivial group, at table in 
full revel, pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force with which 
the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on 
tobacco boxes for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there 
should be any mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the 
names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, 
recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of 
the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was "re- 
paired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." 
Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relic, and I 
question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman 
shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought sangreal, 
with more exultation. 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honey- 
ball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my 
hands a drinking cup or goblet which also belonged to the vestry, 
and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription 
of having been the gift of Francis Wytkers, knight, and was held, 



THE NOAM'S SEAD tavern, EASTCHEAP. 8§ 

she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very " antyke." 
This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the 
red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom 1 strongly suspected of being a 
lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused 
from his meditation on the pot of porter, and casting a knowing look 
at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay, the head don't ache now that made 
that there article." 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry 
by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing 
sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian research ; for I 
immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical 
"parcel-gilt goblet" on which FalstafE made his loving but faithless 
vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, be treasured up 
with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that 
solemn contract.* 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had 
been handed down from generation to generation. She also enter- 
tained me with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen 
who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient 
roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds 
of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest 
my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suf- 
fice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap believe that 
FalstafE and his merry crew actually lived and reveled there. Nay, 
there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant 
among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give 
as transmitted down from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kasli, an 
Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's 
Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's not laid down in the bool«, 
with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some farther inqui- 
ries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had de- 
clined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom 
of his stomach, and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his 
eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from the corner of his 
mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door which 
stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory breast of lamb, 
roasting in dripping richness before the fire. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my recondite investi- 
gation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels 
yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my 

*Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin Chamber, 
at the round-table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the 
Prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man of Windsor ; thou 
didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my 
lady, thy wife. Canet thou deny it ?— ., fliew/^ /F.,P<w< S- 



86 SKETCH-BOOK. 

gratitude and good will, I departed with a hearty benediction on him, 
Dame Honey ball, and the parish-ciub of Crooked lane — not forgetting 
my shabby' but sententious friend in the oil-cloth hat and copper 
nose. 

Thus have I given a " tedious brief" account of this interesting re- 
search ; for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can only 
plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly popular 
at the present day. I am aware that a more skillful illustrator of the 
imrnortal bard would have swelled the materials I have touched upon 
to a good merchantable bulk, comprising the biographies of William 
.Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston : some notice of the emi- 
nent fishmongeri of St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and 
little ; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, 
whom I have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending 
the breast of lamb (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely 
lass, with a neat foot and ankle) ; the whole enlivened by the riots of 
Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All tliis I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future commentators ; 
nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box and the "parcel-gilt gob- 
let," which I have thus brought to light, the subject of future engrav- 
ings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes 
as the shield of Achilles or the far-famed Portland vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OP LITERATURE. 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is broughf^, ^ 

In time's ^reat periods shall return to noughl ^ 

I know that all the muses' heavenly layes. 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought. 
As idle sounds of few or none are sought. 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Dkummond op Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we nat- 
urally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, 
where we may indulge our reveries, and build our air-castles undis 
turbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray cloisters 
of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought 
which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when sud- 
denly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster school, playing 
at foot-ball, bioke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making 
Ike vaulted passages and. moldering tombs echo with their merriment 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEHATURE. 87 

I sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper 
into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for 
admission to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with 
the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy 
passage leading to the Chapter-house, and the chamber in which 
Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door 
on (he left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, 
and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended 
a dark narrow staircase, and passing through a second door, entered 
the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by mas- 
sive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of 
Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and which 
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient pic- 
ture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over 
the fire-place. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, 
arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old 
polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In 
the center of the library was a solitary table, with two or three books 
on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long dis- 
use. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound medita- 
tion. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and 
shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and 
then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 
and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echoed soberly along 
ihe roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew 
fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, 
'and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parch- 
ment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a veneral)]e 
elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the 
solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of 
musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their molder- 
ing covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never dis- 
turbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library a kind of 
literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, a-^-e piously en- 
tombed, and left to blacken and molder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside 
with such indifEerence, cost some aching head — how many weary 
days ? how many sleepless nights ? How have their authors' buried 
themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters • shut themselves up 
from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature ; and 
devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflection? And 
all for what ? to occapv an inch of dusty shelf — to Lave the titles of 
their works read now and then in a future age by some drowsy 
churchman or casual straggler like myself ; and in another age to be 



88 • SKETCH-BOOK 

lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted im- 
mortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of 
that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for 
a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away, like 
a thing that was not ! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable 
speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming 
with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the 
clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or 
three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then a husky hem, 
and at length began to talk. At first its voice was very hoarse and 
broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider 
had woven across it ; and having probably contracted a cold from long 
exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, how- 
ever, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly 
fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather 
quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what in the present day 
would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far as I am 
able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about merit 
being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace 
topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not 
been opened for more than two centuries ; — that the Dean only looked 
now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, 
trifled with them for a few moments, and then returned them to their 
shelves. 

" What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I 
began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they 
mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, 
merely to be looked at now and then by the Dean? Books were 
written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule 
passed that the Dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a 
year ; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we 
may now and then have an airing." 

" Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how 
much better you are off than most books of your generation. By 
being stored away in this ancient library you are like the treasured 
remains of those saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the ad- 
joining chapels ; while the remains of their contemporary mortals, 
left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to 
dnst." 

'' Sir," said the little tome, ruflSing his leaves and looking big, " I 
was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I 
was intended to circulate from haud to hand, like other ^eat co©- 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 89 

temporary works ; but here have I been clasped up for more than two 
centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that 
are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had not by 
chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before 
I go to pieces." 

"My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the circula- 
tion of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. 
To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years; 
very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence ; and 
those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old 
libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems 
you might more properly and gratefully have compared to those in- 
firmaries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of the 
old and decrepid, and where, by quiet fostering and no employment, 
they often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You 
talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet 
with their works ? — what do we hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln ? 
No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is said 
to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as it were, 
a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid 
has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are scattered in va- 
rious libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed even by the anti- 
quarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, 
antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet? He declined two 
bishoprics that he might shut himself up and write for posterity ; 
but posterity never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of 
Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a 
treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has revenged 
by forgetting him ? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the 
miracle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three great heroic 
poems, one is lost for ever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others 
are known only to a few of the curious in literature ; and as to his 
love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in 
current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of 
the tree of life ? — of William of Malmsbury ; of Simeon of Durham ; 
of Benedict of Peterborough ; of John Hanvill of St. Albans : 
©f " 

** Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, " how old do 
you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long before 
my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a man- 
ner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten ; * but I, 

i W" ■ ^j ^w ii-ii ,' -._.■ , ii . igd. _^ 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endyte, and 
have many noble things follilde, butcertes there ben some that speaken their poisye 
in French, of which epeche the French luea have as good a fantasye as we have in 
tearing of Frenchmen's Engliake. ,. GujlVC^^''q Testament ^ Low, 



90 SKETCH-BOOK, 

sir, was usliered into tlie world from tlie press of the renowned 
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a 
time when the language had become fixed ; and, indeed, I was con- 
sidered a model of pure and elegant English." 

[I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intoler- 
ably antiquated terms that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering 
them into modern phraseology.] 

"I cry you mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it mat- 
ters little ; almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed 
into forgetf ulness ; and De Worde's publications are mere literary rari- 
ties among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, 
too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the 
illacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times 
of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes 
of mongrel Saxon,* Even now, many talk of Spenser's 'well of 
pure English undefiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well 
or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various 
tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this 
which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the 
reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be commit- 
ted to something more permanent and unchangeable than such a 
medium, even thought must share the fate of everything else and 
fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and 
exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the language in 
which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to 
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back 
and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favorites of 
their day, supplanted by modern writers : a few short ages have cov- 
ered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by 
the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be 
the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its 
day, and held up as a model of purity, will, in the course of years, 
grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become almost as unin- 
telligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those 
Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," 
added I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern library, 
I filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, 
I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he 
surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, 

* Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "Afterwards, also, by diligent travell of 
Geffry Chaucer and John 'jowrie, in the time of Eichard the Second, and after them 
of John Scogan and JohnLydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to 
an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection 
until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum John 
Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplishec' *he omar 
tore of the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation, " 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITEBATURB. 91 

»ni reflected that in one hundred years not one ( f them would be in 
existence \" 

" All," said tlie little quarto with a heavy sigh, " I see how it is ; 
these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I 
suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, 
Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun 
euphuisms of the ' unparalleld John Lyly,' " 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; "the writers whom you 
suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you werelastl 
in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's) 
Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his ad- 
mirers,* and which, in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate 
iDftages, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever men- 
tioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though 
his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently perpet- 
uated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A whole 
crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time have likewise 
gone down with all their writings and their controversies. Wave 
after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them , until they 
are buried so deep that it is only now and then that some industrious 
diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the grat- 
ification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of lan- 
guage a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at 
large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy : we 
daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing 
up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading 
into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, 
the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing : 
the earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its 
surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of 
genivis and learning decline and make way for subsequent produc- 
tions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writ- 
ings of authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise 
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and 
the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of 
literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive 
multiplication : works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a 
slow and laborious operation ; they were written either on parch- 

*Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden 
pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the 
secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee of the daintyest 
flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the intellectual virtues, the arme 
of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practice 
in esse, and the paragon of excellency Jn print. 

__ Habtbt's Pierce's Siip«rerogft^i(m. 



^h 8KETGH-B00JS:. 

ment, wliich was expensive, so tliat one work was often erased ta 
make way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and ex- 
tremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unprofitable craft, 
pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. 
The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined 
almost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in 
some measure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the in- 
tellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought have not been 
broken up and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the in- 
ventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints: 
they have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to poui 
itself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. 
The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has swollei} 
into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded into a sea. A few 
centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great 
library; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, con. 
taining three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors 
at the same time busy ; and a press going on with fearfully increas- 
ing activity, to double and quadruple the number? Unless some 
unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the 
Muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I 
fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism 
may do much ; it increases with the increase of literature, and resem- 
bles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by econ- 
omists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to 
the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain •, 
let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print-, 
and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It 
will soon be the employment of a life-time merely to learn their 
names. Many a man of passable information at the present day 
reads scarcely anything but reviews, and before long a man of erudi- 
tion will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily 
m my face, ' ' excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are 
rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was 
making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, 
was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at 
him, for he was a poor, half -educated varlet, that knew little of Latin 
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for 
deer-stealing. I think his nair.e was Shakespeare. I presume he soon 
sunk into oblivion." 

•' On the contrary," said I, "it is o,ving to that very man that the 
literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordi- 
nary term of English literature. There arise authors now and then 
who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they 
have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human na- 



TEE MUTABILITY OF' LlfERATnRE. 03 

ture. Tliey are like gigantic trees tliat we sometimes see on tlie 
banks of a' stream, wliicli, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating 
throngli tlie mere surface, and laying bold on tbe very foundations of 
the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away 
by the overflowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant, 
and perhaps worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with 
Shakespeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time, 
retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and 
giving duration to many an indifferent author merely from having 
flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually 
assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profu- 
sion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, al-- 
most bury the noble plant that upholds them," 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until 
at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that had well- 
nigh choked him by reason of his excessive corpulency. * ' Mighty 
well !" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well ! 
and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be 
perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man without learning ! 
by a poet ! forsooth — a poet ! " And here he wheezed forth another 
fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, how- 
ever, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less pol- 
ished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 

" Yes," resumed I positively, ' ' a poet ; for of all writers he has 
the best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, 
but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand 
him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose features are al- 
ways the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are volumi- 
nous and unwieldy ; their pages crowded with commonplaces, and 
their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet 
everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest 
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by everything 
that lie sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by 
pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writ-! 
ings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, 
of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within 
a small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, which 
are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may 
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, 
as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of 
the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach 
of literary history. What vast valleys of dullness, filled with monk- 
ish legends and academical controversies ! What bogs of theological 
speculations ! What dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there 
only do we behold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons 



on their widely-separated lieiglits, to transmit tlie pure l^lit of poeti- 
cal intelligence from age to age."* 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of 
the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my 
Aead. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to 
close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, 
but the worthy little tome was silent, the clasps were closed, and it 
looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to 
the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it 
into further conversation, but in vain : and whether all this rambling 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd 
day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, beer 
able to discover. 



RURAL FUNERALS. 

Here's a few flowers I but about midnigbt more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewing fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered : even so 
These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow, 

Ctmbeliwb. 

Among- the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which 
still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing flowers 
before the funerals and planting them at the graves of departed 
friends. ^ These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rights of 
the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having 
been observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently men- 
tioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous tributes 
of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself 
to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They 
are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of 
•the kingdom, where fashion aud innovation have not been able to 



* Thorow earth, and waters deepe, 

The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worlde's abuse, 

And shoes us in a glasse, 
The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve ; 
The honey combe that bee doth make, 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ; 
Which doth surmount oui common talke, 

As f aire as dross dcth lead. 

CBXSBBBYAJBSt 



R URAL FUNERALS. 95 

throng in, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of 
the olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies is 
covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and 
plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 

WMte his shroud as the mountain snow, 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; 
Which be-wept to the grave did go, 

With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some? of 
the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who has 
died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne be- 
fore the corpse by a young girl, nearest in age, size, and resemblance, 
and is afterward hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of 
the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in 
imitation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white 
gloves. They are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased 
and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the grave 
with the singing of psalms and hymns ; a kind of triumph, " to show," 
says Bourne. " that they have finished their course with joy, and 
are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is observed in some 
of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has 
a pleasing though melancholy efEect to hear, of a still evening, in 
some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge 
swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along 
the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will 

The Daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. 

Heekick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveler to the passing 
funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, occurring 
among the quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep into the soul. As the 
mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; he 
then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, at 
other times for a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of 
respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English char- 
acter, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is 
finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown 
by the common people for an honored and peaceful grave. Th© hum- 



96 SKETCH-BOOK 

blest peasant, whatever may be liis lowly lot wbile living, is anxious 
that some little respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomaa 
Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes. 
*' Thus lives she, and all her care is that she may die in the spring 
time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet. " The 
poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually 
advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In " The Maid's Tra- 
gedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of 
the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
girl. 

When she sees a bank 
Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell ; 

Her servants what a pretty place it were 
To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent ; 
osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and 
about them were planted evergreens and flowers. " We adorn their 
graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redolent 
plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in 
Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties whose roots, being buried in 
dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has now become ex- 
tremely rare in England ; but it may still be met with in the church- 
yards of retired villages among the Welsh mountains ; and I recol- 
lect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, which lies at the 
head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a 
friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorgan- 
shire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, 
which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the 
grave. 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same 
manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and 
not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various 
states of decay ; some drooping, others quite perished. They were 
afterward to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens ; j 
which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and overshad- 
owed the tombstones. ( 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement 
of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly poetical. The 
rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem 
of frail mortality. " This sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a 
branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural 
hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, 
which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns 
and crosses. " The nature and color of the flowers, and of the rib- 
bons with which they are tied, had often a particular reference to the 



BUBAL FUNEBALS. ' 91 

qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of fhe feelings 
of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled " Corydon's Doleful Knell/' 
a lover specifies tlie decorations he intends to use : 

A garland shall be framed 

By Art and Nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored flowers, 

In token of good will. 

And sundry-colored ribands 

On it I will bestow : 
But chiefly blacke and yellowQ 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin ; 
her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless in- 
nocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to be- 
speak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used 
in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but 
roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn 
tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near 
his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly 
planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose- 
bushes.*' And Camden likewise remarks in his Brittania : " Here is 
also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of planting rose- 
trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and mr.ids who 
have lost their loves ; so h t this churchyard is now full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a 
more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cyprus ; and 
■f flowers were strewn they were of the most melancholy colors. 
Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the 
following stanza : 

Yet strew 
Upon my dismal grave 
Such offerings as you have, 

Forsaken cypresse and yewe: 
For kinder flowers can take no birth 
Or growth from such unhappy earth. 

In ** The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced illus- 
trative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who havf* 
been disappointed in love. 

Lay a garland on my hearse 

Of the dismal yew. 
Maidens willow branches wOfUC; 
Say I died true. 
ElVINe I — i — 



dS SKETCH-BOOK. 

My love was false, bnt I was firm, 

From my hour of birth. 
Upon my buried body lie 

Lightly, gentle eartli. 

Tte natural effect of sorrow over tlie dead is to refine and elevate 
the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and 
the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of 
these funeral observances. Tims, it was an especial precaution that 
none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. 
The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, 
to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing 
mortality, and to associate the mem.ory of the deceased with the most 
delicate and beautiful objects in Nature. There is a dismal process 
going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which 
the imagination shrinks from contemplating ; and we seek still to 
think of the form we have loved, with those refined associations which 
it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Laj 
her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister. 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 

May violets spring. 

Herrick, also, in his ''Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant 
flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms th» 
dead in the recollections of the living. 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all paradise ; 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke from henco 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

4: 4: H: H: 4: 

May all shie maids at wonted hours 

Come forth to strew thy" tombe with flowers ! 

May virgins, when they come to mourn 

Male incense bum 
Upon thine altar, then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets, 
who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and dehghted fre- 
quently to allude to them ; bat I have already quoted more than is 
necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from 
Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite, which illustrates the 
emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral tributes, and 
at the same time possesses that magic of language and appositeness 
of imagery for which he stiuads pre-eminent. 



RUEALFUN-EBALSr 98 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst stunmer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
5^6 flower that's like thj face, pale T3rimrose j QOf 
The aznredJinv^^-^'l "'"^ ,11,^^,:;^^ :^^^ ^^j 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander5 
J>^utsweetened not thy breath. 

There is tter+alnly sometliing more affecting in these prompt and 
ipontaneous offerings of nature than in the most costly monuments 
of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and thoj 
tear falls on the grav«^ as affection is binding the osier round the sod; ( 
but pathos expires undt./ the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled 
among the cold conceits oi" struiptured marble. 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant and 
touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most 
remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as if poetical custom 
always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as peo- 
ple grow polite, they cease to be puexical. They talk of poetry, but 
they have learned to check its free iinpulses, to distrust its sallying 
emotions, and to s apply its most affecting and picturesque usages by 
studied form and pompous ceremonial. Pew pageants can be more 
stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made up of 
show and gloomy parade : mourning carriages, mourning horses, 
mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of 
grief. "There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, ''and a 
solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, and when 
the dales are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no 
more. " The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; 
the hurrying succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces 
him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he 
moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are 
solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in 
the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of 
rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with 
its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the land- 
scape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, perpetuate 
the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them : who 
was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to 
evory lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of nature ; 
we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; 
his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we think of 
him in the wild upland solitude or amid the pensive beauty of the 
valley. In the freshness of joyous morning we remember his beam- 
ing smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns, 
with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many 
a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melanclioly. 



m BKETGH-BOOK 

Each lonely place shall him restore. 

For him the tear be duly shed, 
Beloved, till life can charm no more. 

And mourn 'd till pity's self be dead. 

Another cause that perpetuates tlie memory of the deceased in the 
country is that the grave is more immediately in sight of the sur- 
vivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets their eyes 
when their hearts are softened by the exercise of devotion ; they lin- 
ger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly 
cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and 
present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the 
past. In North Wales, the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves 
of their deceased friends for several Sundays after the interment ; and 
where the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still prac- 
ticed, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festi- 
vals, when the season brings the companion of former festivity more 
vividly to the mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest 
relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a 
neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer com- 
pensation. 

I have dwelt upon this beautiful raral custom, because, as it is one 
of the last, so is it one of the holiest ofiices of love. The grave is the 
ordeal of true afiection. It is there that the divine passion of the 
soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere ani- 
mal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept 
alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the 
soul can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense 
languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn 
with shuddering and disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; 
but it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every 
sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify 
the heart of the survivor. 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to 
be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other afllic- 
tion to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — 
this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where .is the 
mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a 
blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? Where 
is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, 
though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of 
agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even 
when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved — 
when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its por- 
tal — would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetful- 
ness? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest 
attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; 



nVBAL FUNERALS. 161 

and wlien the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle 
tear of recollection — when the sudden anguish and the convulsive 
agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened 
away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its 
loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from the heart ? 
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour 
of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom ; yet 
who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of 
revelry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. 
There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the 
charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — It buries every 
error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment ! From 
its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollec- 
tions. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy and 
not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with 
the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him ? 

But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation' 
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue 
and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us 
almost unheeded in the daily intercoui'se of intimacy ; — there it is 
that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of 
the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its 
noiseless attendance — its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testi- 
monies of expiring love ! The feeble, flattering, thrilling — oh ! how 
thrilling ! — pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing 
eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence. The 
faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assur- 
ance of affection ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle 
the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, 
every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can 
never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child,^ and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul or a 
furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent — if thou art a 
husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole 
happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy 
truth — if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, 
or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee — if thou art a 
lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which 
now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every un- 
kind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come 
thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul 
— ^then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on 
the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailin '^ tear 
— more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 

Then Weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of na- 



lei SKETCE-BOOK. 

ture about tlie grave ; console thy broken spirit If thon canst Tritli 
these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; — but take warning by the 
bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth 
be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the 
living. 



In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a full 
detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to 
furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites, to 
be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been with- 
held. The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and this 
is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these 
usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investigated in 
other works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of 
adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries besides 
England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed 
even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its sim- 
plicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in 
Lower Hungary, tells of monuments in marble, and recesses formed 
for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of green-house plants ; 
and that the graves generally are covered with the gayest flowers of 
the season. He gives a casual picture of final piety, which I cannot 
but describe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrate the 
amiable virtues of the sex, " When I was at Berlin," says he, " I fol- 
lowed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, 
you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, 
my attention was attracted by a young woman who stood on a mound 
of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected 
from the feet of the passing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; 
and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument 
more striking than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I on^j 
met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village" 
of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the lake of I^uzerne, at the 
foot of Mount Eigi. It was once the capital of a miuiaLiire republic, 
shut up between the Alps and the lake, and accessible on the land 
side only by foot-paths. The whole force of the republic did notex- 
<ceed six hundred fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, 
scooped out, as it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised 
its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest 
of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It 
had a small church, with a burying -ground adjoining. At the heads 
of the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were 
affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at like- 
nesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, 



THE INN KITCHEN. 103 

some withering', others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused 
with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical 
description, for these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of 
the heart, which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more pop- 
ulous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested by 
factitious sentiment, derived from books ; but the good people of 
Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem 
in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place 
dreamed, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his 
mistress, that he was fuljailing one of the most fanciful rites of poet- 
ical devotion, and that he was practically a poet. 



THE INN KITCHEN. 

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? 

Faistaff, 

DuRrNTGl- a journey that I once made through the Netherlands I 
had arrived one evening at the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a 
small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table d'hote, so 
that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of its 
ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one 
end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had 
the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible 
means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested some- 
thing to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his house- 
hold, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a 
number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the 
latter, reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the 
kitchen. Every one that has traveled on the continent must know 
how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle 
and inferior order of travelers ; particularly in that equivocal kind 
of weather when a fire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw 
aside the newspaper and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a 
peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed 
partly of travelers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, 
and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They 
were seated round a great burnished stove that might have been mis- 
taken for an altar, at which they were worshiping. It was covered 
with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which 
steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a 
strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features 



104 SKETCH-BOOK. 

in strong relief. Its y©llow rays partially illumined tlie spacious' 
kitchen, dyin^ duskily away into remote corners ; except wKere they 
settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or 
were reflected back from well-scoured utensils that gleamed from the 
midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pen- 
dants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, 
was the presiding priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them 
with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occa- 
sioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry 
weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures ; 
at the end of each of which there was one of those bursts of hon- 
est unceremonious laughter in which a man indulges in that temple 
of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering 
evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety of 
travelers' tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. All of 
them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory except one, 
which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief 
zest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and 
appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had 
the look of a veteran traveler. He was dressed in a tarnished green 
traveling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of 
overalls with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, 
rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleas- 
ant twinkling eye. His hair was light and curled from under an old 
green velvet traveling-cap, stuck on one side of his head. He was 
interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests or the remarks 
of his*auditors ; and paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at 
which times he had generally a roguish leer and a sly joke for the 
buxom kitchen maid. 

I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a huge 
arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted 
tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated with silver 
chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a whimsicai 
cut ot the eye occasionally, as he related the following story : 



TEE SPECTEIt BMEDEGROOM. 105 

THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM. 

i.. A TEAYELER'S talk* 

He that snpperfor is dight, 

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 

Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-steel has made his bed ! 

Sir Egeb, Sir Grahame, and Sir Grat-stebl. 

/ On tlie summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and 
romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the conflu- 
ence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years 
since, the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen 
to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs ; above 
which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like 
the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look 
down upon a neighboring country. 

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellen- 
]iogen,f and inherited the relics of the property and all the pride of 
his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predecessors 
had much impaired the family possessions, yet the Baron still endeav- 
ored to keep up some show of former state. The times were peace- 
able, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned their incon- 
venient old castles, perched like eagles' nests among the mountains, 
and had built more convenient residences in the valleys ; still the 
Baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing 
with hereditary inveteracy all the old family feuds ; so that* he was 
on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of dis- 
putes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The Baron had but one child, a daughter ; but Nature, when she 
grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy ; 
and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gos- 
sips, and country cousins assured her father that she had not her 
equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who should know better than 
they ? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care, under 
the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years 
of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled 
in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine 
lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of accomplish- 
ments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admi- 

* The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that the 
above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, 
©f a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris . 

+ i. e. Cat's Elbow— the name of a family of those parts, very powerful in 
former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless 
dame of the f axuily, celebrated for a £jie ana 



106 SRETCE-BOOK, 

ration, and tad worked wliole histories of the saints in tapestry, with 
such strength of expression in their countenances that they looked 
like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great diffi- 
culty, and had spelled her way through several church legends and 
almost all the chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even 
made considerable projficiency in writing, could sign her own name 
without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it 
without spectacles. She excelled in making little good-for-nothing 
lady-like knicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in the most abstruse 
dancing of the day ; played a number of airs on the harp and 
guitar ; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie-lieders by 
heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their 
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians and 
strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so 
rigidly prudent and inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. 
She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; never went beyond the 
domains of the castle unless well attended or rather well watched ; 
had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit 
obedience ; and, as to the men — pah ! she was taught to hold them at 
such distance and distrust that, unless properly authorized, she would 
not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world — 
no, not if he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The 
young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others 
were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world and liable to 
be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly blooming 
into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of those im- 
maculate spinsters, lilie a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian 
thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and 
vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the world might go 
astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the 
heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 

But however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided 
with children, his household was by no means a small one, for Provi- 
dence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. They, one 
and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to humble rel- 
atives ; were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took every pos- 
sible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle. All family 
festivals were commemorated by these good people at the Baron's ex- 
pense ; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare 
that there was nothing on earth so delightful as tbesp', fami}'- meet- 
ings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul £ind it swelled 
with satisfaction at the consciousness of being thegrtatetit man in the 
little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark 



THE SPECTEB BRIDEGROOM. 10? 

old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls 
around, and lie found no listeners equal to those who fed at his ex- 
pense. He was much given to the marvelous, and a firm believer in 
all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in 
Germany abounds. The faith of his guests even exceeded his own : 
they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and 
never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, 
the absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, above 
all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man of the 
age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was a great family- 
gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : — it 
was to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron's daughter. A 
negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old noble- 
man of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage 
of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted with proper 
punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each 
other, and the time \ras appointed for the marriage ceremony. The 
young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from the anny for the 
purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's to receive his 
bride. Missives had even been received from him from Wurtzburg, 
where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour 
when he might be expected to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable 
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. 
The two aunts had superintended her toilet and quarreled the whole 
morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had taken 
advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste ; and 
fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful 
bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of expectation heightened 
the luster of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving 
of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the 
soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were 
continually hovering around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to take 
great interest in affairs of this nature : they were giving her a world 
of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what man- 
ner to receive the expected lover. 

The Baron was no less basied in preparations. He had, in truth, 
nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little 
man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. 
He worried from top to bottom of the castle, with an air of infinite 
anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their work to exhort 
them to be diligent, and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as 
idly restless '* *^d importunat© as 9. i^UiQ-bottl© flj of a warm summer's 
daj. -- ' • .^-^..^ 



108 SKETCH-BOOK. 

In the mean time, tlie fatted calf had been killed ; the forests had 
rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was crowded 
with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein- 
wein and Ferne-wein, and even the great Heidelburgh tun had been 
laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the distin- 
guished guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of Gferman hos- 
pitality — but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled 
after hour. The sun that had poured his downward rays upon the 
rich forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of 
the mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower, and strained 
his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the Count and his at- 
tendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came 
floating from the valley, prolonged by the moantain echoes : a number 
of horsemen were seen far below slowly advancing along the road ; 
but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they 
suddenly struck off in a different direction. The last ray of sunshine 
departed — ^the bats began to flit by in the twilight — the road grew 
dimmer and. dimmer to the view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it 
bat now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a 
rery interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Oden- 
wald. 

The young Cont Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route 
In that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward matrimony 
when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of court- 
ship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him as certainly as a 
dinner, at the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg 
a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service 
on the frontiers : Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands 
and worthiest hearts of German chivalry, who was now returning from 
the army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fort- 
ress of Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered the families 
hostile and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends re- 
lated all their past adventures and fortunes, and the Count gave the 
whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he 
had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most enrap- 
turing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to 
perform the rest of their journey together ; and that they might do it . 
more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the Count 
having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military 
scenes and adventures ; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious, 
now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride and the felicity 
that awaited him — ^..- - 



TBE SPEGTEH BBIDEGEOOM, 109 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Oden- 
wald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded 
passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always 
been as much infested with robbers as its castles by specters ; and, at 
this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of 
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear 
extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of 
these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended themselves 
with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the Count's ret- 
inue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, 
but not until the Count had received a mortal wound. He was slowly 
and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar 
summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill 
in administering to both soul and body. But half of his skill wa,s 
superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to 
the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keep- 
ing his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of 
lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared 
earnestly solicitous that this mission should be speedily and cour- 
teously executed. " Unless this is done," said he, " I shall not sleep 
quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last w^ords with peculiai 
solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesi- 
tation, Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe him to calmness ; promised 
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn 
pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon 
lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — his engagements — hia 
plighted word ; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of 
Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the untimely 
fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward mission he 
had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and bis head perplexed ; for 
he was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, 
and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still 
there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this 
far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from 
the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was 
a dash of eccentricity and enterprise in his character that made him 
fond of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with the 
holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his 
friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near 
some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the 
Count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of 
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more 



110 BKETCE-BOOJ^. 

for their dinner ; and to tlie worthy little Baron, whom we left airing 

himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, hut still no guest arrived. The Baron descended 
from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed 
from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were 
already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and the whole household 
had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The 
Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the 
presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave 
notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the 
old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the 
warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future 
son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the 
gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. Hia 
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an 
air of stately melancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that he 
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a 
moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of 
proper respect for the important occasion and the important family 
with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, 
with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience 
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, ** to break in upon you thus un- 
seasonably — " 

Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and 
greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy 
and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem 
the torrent of words, but in vain ; so he bowed his head and sufliered 
it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they had 
reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger was again 
about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance 
of the female part of the family, leading forth the shrinking and 
blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it 
/seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon 
I that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in 
her ear ; she made an effort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly 
raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast 
again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet 
smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that 
showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible 
for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love 
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for par- 
ley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conver- 
sation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. 



TEE SPEGTm BBIDEGROOM. Ill 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls 
hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Kat- 
zenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field 
and in the chase. Hacked croslets, splintered jousting spears, and 
tattered banners were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare : 
the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar grinned horribly 
among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched 
immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertain-, 
ment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, bat seemed absorbed in ad- 
miration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone, that could not be 
overheard — for the language of love is never Ir^ud ; bat where is the 
female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the 
lover ? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner 
that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her 
color came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now and 
then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned 
away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, 
and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the 
young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were 
deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had 
fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were 
all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon ligiit purses 
and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest stories, and 
never had he told them so well or with such great effect. If there 
was anything marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; 
and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the 
right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dig- 
nified to utter any joke but a dall one : it was always enforced, how- 
ever, by a bumper of excellent Hocli-heimer ; and even a dull joke, 
at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. 
Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would 
not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches 
whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed 
laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a poor but merry and 
broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made '^he maiden 
aunts hold up their fans. 

Amid all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most sin- 
gular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper 
cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may ap- 
pear, even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more 
melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was 
a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind bat 
ill at ease. His conversation with the bride became more and more 
earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair 
serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. 



113 BEETCE-BOOK ' "^ 

All tliis coald not escape the notice of tlie company. Theii gayety 
was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom ; their 
spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, ac- 
companied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and 
the laugh grew less and less frequent . there were dreary pauses in 
the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales and 
supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still more 
dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hys- 
terics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away the 
fair Leonora — a dreadful but true story, which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He 
kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and as the story drew to a 
close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, 
until, in the Baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a 
giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and 
took a solenm farewell of the company. They were all amazement, 
f he Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? why, everything 
was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he 
wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously : "I 
must lay my head in a different chamber to-night ! " 

There was something in this reply and the tone in which it was 
uttered that made the Baron's heart misgive him ; but he rallied his 
forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his 
head silently but positively at every offer ; and waving his fare- 
well to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden 
aunts were absolutely petrified — the bride hung her head, and a tear 
stole to her eye. 

The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, 
where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with 
impatience When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway 
was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the 
Baron in a hollow tone of voice which the vaulted roof rendered still 
more sepulchral. '•' Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart 
to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn and indispensable 
engagement — " 

"Why," said the Baron, "cannot you send some one in your 
place ? " 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — I must 
away to Wurtzburg cathedral — " 

" Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until to-'^or- 
!fow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

*_ No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with ten-fold solemnity, my 
^^gagement is with no bride — the worms 1 the worms expect me I I 



THE 8PEGTER BBLDEOROOM. 113 

am a dead man — I liave been slain by robbers — ^my body lies at 
Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — tbe grave is waiting for 
me — I must keep my appointment ! " 

He sprang on bis black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and 
the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the 
night-blast. 

The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and 
related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright ; others 
sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a specter. It was the 
opinion of some that this might be the wild huntsman famous in 
German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, ^ 
and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of 
Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some 
sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess 
of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. 
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, 
and especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as little better 
than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his heresy as speedily 
as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. 

But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were 
completely put to an end by the arrival , nest day, of regular mis- 
sives, confirming the intelligence of the young Count's murder and 
his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron shut 
himself up in his chamber. The guests who had come to rejoice 
with him could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They 
wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking 
their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good 
a man ; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more 
stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the 
situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a 
husband before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! 
if the very specter could be so gracious and noble, what must have 
been the living man ? She filled the house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired 
to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on 
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of 
ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her 
longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber 
was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively 
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the 
leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just 
told midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. 
She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. 
A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised iti^ 



114 ~ BEETGE-BOOK. 

head, a beam of moonliglit fell upon the countenance. Heaven and 
earth ! she beheld the Specter Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that 
moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened 
by the music, and had followed her silently to tbe window, fell into 
her arms. When she looked again the specter had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for 
she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, 
there was something, even in the specter of her lover, that seemed 
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and 
though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, 
even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in 
that chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared 
as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle: the conse- 
quence was that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the specter, lest she should be 
denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth — that of inhab- 
iting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept 
its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is 
uncertain, for she dearly loved to tall?: of the marvelous, and there is 
a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, 
still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of female 
jsecrecy that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when she was 
suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence brought 
ko the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be 
found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the 
window was open — and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was re- 
ceived can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the agita- 
tion which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. 
Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable 
labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been struck 
speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, "The goblin ! the gob- 
lin! she's carried .away by the goblin!" 

i In a few words she related the fearful scenes of the garden, and 
, concluded that the specter must have carried off his bride. Two of 
the domestics corroborated the opinion, for tbey had heard the clat- 
tering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had 
no doubt that it was the specter on his black charger, bearing her 
away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful proba- 
bility; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as 
many well-authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron ! What a 
heart-rending dilenmia for a fond father, and a member of the great 
familj of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter had either been 



THE SPECTER BRIDEGROOM, 11$ 

wrapped away to the grave, or lie was to have some wood-demon for 
a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grandchildren. As 
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. 
The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path 
and glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on 
his jack- boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed 
to sally forth on the dcfubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause 
by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted 
on a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to 
the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet em- 
braced his knees. It was his lost daughter and her companion — tht 
Specter Bridegroom ! The Baron was astounded. He looked at his 
daughter, then at the Specter, and almost doubted the evidence of his 
senses. The latter, too, was vronderfully improved in his appearance, 
since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and 
set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and 
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of 
youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as 
you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced 
himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure 
with the young Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to 
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron 
had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight 
of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few 
hours near her he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How 
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, 
until the Baron's goblia stories had suggested his eccentric exit. 
How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his 
visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the young lady's 
window — had wooed — had won — had borne away in triumph — and, in 
a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances, the Baron would have been inflex. 
ible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obsti- 
nate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented 
her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive ; and, though her hus- 
band was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. 
There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not exactly 
accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had 
passed upon him of his being" a dead man ; but several old friends 
present, who had served in the wars, assured him that every strata- 
gem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to 
especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron pardoned 
the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. 
The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with 



116 8KETCB-B00S:. 

loving kindness ; lie was so gallant, so generous, and so ricli. Tli€ 
aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system ol 
strict seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exem- 
plified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the 
windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having 
her marvelous story marred, and that the only specter she had ever 
seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly 
happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood — andl so the 
story ends. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how there resorte, 
Living in brasse or stony monument, 
The princess and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see ref ormde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation. 
And looke upon offenseless majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon, 
Could not content nor quench their appetites. 

Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 

And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter part 
of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost mingle 
together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed 
several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was 
something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of 
the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping 
back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the 
shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, through a 
long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look, 
being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the mass- 
ive walls. ^ Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the 
cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving 
along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a specter from one of 
the neighboring tombs. 

The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic re- 
mains prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister 
still retains something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. 
The gray walla are discolored by damps, and crumbling witli age ; a 



WmTMmsfER ABBEt, 111' 

coat of hoary moss lias gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 
monuments, and obscured the death's heads and other funeral 
emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key-stones have 
lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of the gradual 
dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing 
in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square 
of the cloisters : beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the center, 
and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty 
splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit of 
blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of 
the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher 
the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement be- 
neath my feet, my eyes were attracted to three figures, rudely carved 
in. relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. 
They were the efBgies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were 
entirely effaced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt been 
renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 10S2, and Gislebertus 
Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas, 1178.) I remained 
some little while, musing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus 
left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but 
that such things had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but 
the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
ashes, and to live in an inscription, A little longer, and even these 
faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be 
a memorial. While I was yet looking down upon the gravestones, 
I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from 
buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost 
startling to hear this warning of departed time sounding among the 
tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, lD?:e a billow, has 
rolled us onward toward the grave. 

I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the 
abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully 
upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye 
gazes with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with 
arches springing from them to such an amazing height ; and men 
wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison 
with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast 
edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe, Wc ctep cautiously 
and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of 
the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chatters 
among the sepulchers, making us more sensible of the quiet we have 
interraptod. 



US BKETCrB-BOOK 

It seems as if tlie awful nature of the place presses down upon the 
soul, and hushes the beholder mto noiseless reverence. We feel that 
we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past 
times, who have filled history with their deeds and the earth with 
their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of 
human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and justled in 
the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook^ — a 
gloomy corner — a little portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, 
kingdoms could not satisfy : and how many shapes, and forms, and 
artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and 
save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once 
aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one 
of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments are 
generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford no striking 
themes for tha sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison have statues 
erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medallions, 
and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of 
these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to the abbey 
remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes the 
place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on 
the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. Thoy linger 
about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed 
there is something of companionship between the author and the 
reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium 
of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure ; but the 
intercourse between the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, 
and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself ; he 
has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up from the 
delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune, 
with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish 
his renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and 
blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. WeJl may pos- 
terity be grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not 
of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, 
bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the 
abbey which contains the sepulchers of the kings. I wandered among 
what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs 
and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some illus- 
trious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in 
history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it 
catches glimpses of quaint effigies : some kneeling in niches, as if in 
devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed 
together ; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle ; prelates, 
with crosiers and miters ; and nobles ia^ robes and eoronets, lyixig as 



^. - " WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 119 

Jt were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, 
yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we 
were treading a niansion of that fabled city, where every being had 
been suddenly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the ef5.gj of a knight 
in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were 
pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; the face was almost 
covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed in token of the warrior's 
having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; 
of one of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion 
Hud romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between 
fact and fiction — between the history and the fairy tale. There is 
something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, 
decorated as they cvc with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculp- 
ture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are 
generally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to 
kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chiv- 
"•reus pomp and pageant -y which poetry has spread over the wars 
.or the Sepulchor of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone 
oy ; of beings passed from recollection ° of customs and manners with 
w^hich ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange 
ind distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about 
which all our conceptions are vague and visionaryo There is some- 
thing extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gfothic tombs, 
extended as if in the sleep oi death, or in the supplication of the dying 
hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings 
ihan the fanciful attitudes, the over- wrought conceits, and allegorical 
groups which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, 
also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. 
There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and 
yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes 
ft loftier consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage than 
one which affirms, of a noiale house, that " all the ^''others were 
bravo, and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a moxtament which 
Is among the- most renowned achievements of modern art ; but which, 
to me, appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. 
Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- 
sented as throwing open its marble doors,* and a sheeted skeleton is 
starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he 
lauuciiBs Ins aart at his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted 
husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the 
blow. The wLole is executed with terrible truth and spirit ; we 
almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph, bursting from 
the distended jaws of the specter. But why should we thus seek to 
clothe death with ouiiecessaiy terrors, and to spread horrors around 



120 BKETCH-BOOK 

the tomb of tliose we love ? The grave should be surrounded by 

everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead ; 
or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust 
and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, study- 
ing the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without 
occasionally reaches the ear : — the rumbling of the passing equipage; 
the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. 
The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around ; and it has 
a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active 
life hurrying along and beating against the very walls of the 
liepulcher. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the distant 
tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent ; the 
sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at 
a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle 
and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the 
Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps leads up to it, through a deep and 
gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and deli- 
cately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluc- 
tant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of 
sepulchers. 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture and 
the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought 
into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into 
niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems 
by the cunning labor of the chisel to have been robbed of its weight 
and density, suspended aloft as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of 
the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations 
of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are aflSxed the 
helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and 
above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned %7ith armorial 
bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson, 
with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand 
mausoleum stands the sepulcher of its founder — his eifigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole sur- 
rounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange mixture 
of tombs and trophies ; these emblems of living and aspiring ambition, 
close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all 
must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a 
deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted 
ipeue of former throng and pageau^ Ou looking around on t^e vacoQl 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 121 

stalls of tlie nights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty bu't 
gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my imagination 
conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and 
beauty of the land ; glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and 
military array ; alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an 
admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had 
settled again upon the place, interrupted only by the casual chirping 
of birds, which had found their way into the chapel and built their 
nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and 
desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; some toss- 
ing upon distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some 
mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking to 
deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors — the 
melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching in- 
stance of the equality of the grave, which brings down the oppressor 
to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest 
enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth ; 
in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. 
Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over 
the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. 
The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher continually echo with the sighs of 
sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. 
The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The 
greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained 
and tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched 
upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bear- 
ing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wandering, 
and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind 
the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could 
only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating the 
evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused 
for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and ob- 
scurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and 
more solemn interest to the place. 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 
No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard^ 
For nothing is, but all ob.ivion, 
Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, 
falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were. 



123 8KJ£'1VH-B00K 

hnge billows of sormd. How well do their volume and grandeur ac- 
cord withi this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell 
through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through 
these caves of death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal ! — And now 
they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their 
accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and 
the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; 
they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about 
these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing 
organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and 
rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What 
solemn sweeping concords ? It grows more and more dense and power- 
ful — it fills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is 
stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in 
full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems 
rapt away, and floated upward on this swelling tide of harmony. 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of 
music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were 
gradually thickening around me ; the monuments began to cast deeper 
and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the 
slowly waning day. 

T arose, and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight 
of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye waa 
caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended the 
small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general sur- 
vey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind 
of platform, and close around it are the sepulchers of various kings 
and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars 
and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded 
with tombs ; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie 
moldering in "their beds of darkness." Close by me stood the 
great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste 
of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, 
with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; 
here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulcher. 
Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been 
gathered together as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even 
in the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to 
which it must soon arrive ? how soon that crown which encircles its 
brow must pass away ; and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces 
of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the 
multitude ? For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a 
sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads 
them to sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base 
minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject 



wmTMursTEn asset. n^ 

homage and groveling servility which they pay to uhe living. The 
coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains 
despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the scepter has been stolen 
from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how 
false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered ; 
some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and insult — all more or 
less outraged and dishonored ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted 
windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey 
were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and 
aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
shadows ; the marble figares of the monuments assumed strange 
shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze crept through the 
aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall 
of a verger, traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and 
dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I 
passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jar- 
ring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects 
I had been contemplating, but found they were already falling into 
indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all 
become confounded in my recollection, though 1 had scarcely taken 
my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assem- 
blage of sepulchers but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of re- 
iterated homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty of 
oblivion ? It is, indeed, the empire of Death ; his great shadowy 
palace ; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, 
and spreading dust and forgetf ulness on the monuments of princes. 
How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is 
ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by 
the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes that 
gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 
be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yester- 
day out of our recollection, and will in turn be supplanted by his 
successor of to-morrow. "Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, 
" find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us how we 
may be buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact be- 
comes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription molders 
from the tablet ; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, 
pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand— and their epitaphs but 
characters written in the dust ? What is the security of the tomb or 
the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the 
Great have been scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is 
now the mere curiosity of a museum. The Egyptian mummies^ 



lU BKETCH-BOOK. 

wliicli Cambyses or time had spared, avarice now consumetli ; Mia- 
raim cures wounds, and Pliaraoli is sold for balsams. " * 

Wliat tlien is to insure tliis pile, wliicli now towers above me, from 
sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come 
when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rub- 
bish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and 
praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the 
owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall 
break into these gloomy mansions of death ; and the ivy twine round 
the fallen column ; and the fox- glove hang its blossoms about the 
nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; 
his name perishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a 
tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 



CHRISTMAS. 



But is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair of Ms good, 
gray, old head and beard left ? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more 
of him. 

Hue and Cbt afteb Chbistma& 

A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall, 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden, 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 

When this old cap was new. 

Old Song. 

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and 
rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy 
used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew 
the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had 
painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days 
of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the 
world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present. I 
regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being 
gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern 
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic archi- 
tecture which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, 
partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the addi. 



♦ Sir Thomas Brows. 



CHRISTMAS. 1^5 

tions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings witli 
cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, from 
which it has derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds its 
rich foliage about the Gothic arch and moldering tower, gratefully 
repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, 
and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the 
strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn 
And sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the 
spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of 
the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring : 
they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith and the 
pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement ; they gradually 
increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they 
break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and 
good- will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the 
moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ per- 
forming a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of 
the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, .that 
this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion 
of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together 
of family connections, and drawing closer again those bands of kin- 
dred hearts which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the world 
are continually operating to cast loose ; of calling back the children 
of a family, who have launched forth in life and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rally- 
ing-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again 
among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that gives a 
cbarm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a 
great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. 
Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the 
bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, 
the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; 
earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep 
delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence — all fill us with mute but 
exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But 
in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, 
and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifi- 
cations to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the land- 
scape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir- 
cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the 
social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendl/ 



1^6 SKETCH-BOOK. 

sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each 
other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence 
on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw 
our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness which lie in the 
quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the 
room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The 
ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the 
room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome. 
Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and 
piore cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly 
eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of 
vrintry wind rushes through the hall, clasps the distant door, whistles 
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be 
more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with 
which we look found upon the comfortable chamber and the scene 
pf domestic hilarity ? 

The English, from fj^e great prevalence of rural habits throughout 
every class of society, ha7e »Jways been fond of those festivals and 
holidays which agreeably intorru^^t the stillness of country life ; and 
they were in former days particulaily observant of the religious and 
social rights of Christmas. It is insj^iriiig to read even the dry de- 
tails which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the 
burlesque pageants, the complete abandontnent to mirth and good 
fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to 
throw open every door and unlock every heaii. It brought the 
peasant and the peer together, and blended all rajiks in one warm 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and 
manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Chrisimtts carol, and 
their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospiialiiy. Even 
the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with gre^n decora- 
tions of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays throagn the 
lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip 
knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with 
legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc 
it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has complete- 
ly taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embe] 
lishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and 
polished but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the 
games and ceremonials of Christmas lia^c entirely disappeared, and, 
like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are ecome matters of specula, 
tion and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full 
of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily 
and vigorously ; times wild aud picturesque, which have furnished 



CHUISTMAS. 12: 

poetry witt its ricliest materials and the drama with, its most attract- 
ive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more 
worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleas- 
are has expanded into a broader but a shallower stream, and has for- 
^saken many of those deep and quiet channels where it flowed sweetly 
through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more 
enlightened and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local 
peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The 
traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitali- 
ties, and lordly wassailings have passed away with the baronial cas- 
tles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the 
tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay 
drawing rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christ- 
mas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is grati- 
fying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds so 
powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations making 
on every side for the social board that is again to unite friends and 
kindred — the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, thos* 
tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings — the evergreens dis. 
tributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness — 
all these have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associations 
and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, 
rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a 
winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep sleep 
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and con- 
necting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied 
them into another celestial choir, announcing peace and good -will to 
manldnd. How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! The 
very crowing of the cock heard sometimes in the profound repose of 
the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery dames," was 
thought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred 
lestival ; 

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long : 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome— then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallowed and so gracious is the time. 

Amid the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and 
stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can 
remain insensible ? It is. iudeed» the season of regenerated feeling— 



138 SEETCE-BOOK 

i'iie season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, 
but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love 
again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the 
idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re- 
animates the drooping spirit — as the Arabian breeze will sometimes 
waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the 
desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though forme no social 
hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the 
warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel 
the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy 
looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like tlie 
light of heaven ; and every countenance bright with smiles, and 
glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others 
the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can 
turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow 
beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when 
all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and 
selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies 
which, constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE-COACH. 

» Omne bend 

Sine poena 
Tempus est ludendi 
Venit hora 
Absque mora 
Libros deponendi. 

Old Holidat School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on 
the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate 
them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country ; in 
perusing which I would most courteously invite my reader to lay 
aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday 
spirit which is tolerant of folly and anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long dis- 
tance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. 
The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers who, 
by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relationis 
or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with 
hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares 
iiung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents 



THE STAGE-COACH. 129 

f 1 om distant friends for tlie impending feast. I had tliree fine rosy- 
cheeked school-hoys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the 
huxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the chil- 
dren of this countrj^ They were returniug home for the holi- 
days, in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. 
It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the little 
rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their 
six wrecks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, 
and pedagogue. They were full of the anticipations of the meeting 
with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and 
of the joy they were to give their little sisters, by the presents with 
which their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting to which they 
seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Ban- 
tam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, pos- 
sessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus, 
How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he 
would take^-there was not a hedge in the" whole country that he 
could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to 
whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of 
questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole 
world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of 
bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on 
one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the 
button-hole of his coat. He is alwaj^s a personage full of mighty care 
and business; but he is particularly so during this season, having so 
many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange 
of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my 
untraveled readers to have a sketch that may serve as a general 
representation of this very numerous and important class of function- 
aries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to 
themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wher- 
ever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken 
for one of any other craft or mj'stery. 

He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with red, as 
if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the 
skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of 
malt liquors, and his bulk is still farther increased by a multiplicity 
of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one 
reaching to his lieels. He wears a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat, 
a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted 
and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer time a large bouquet 
of flowers in his button-hole, the present, most probably, of some 
( namored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright 
color,, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to 
meex a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up his legs, 

~^~ - -^ IIIYING 1—5 



136 SKETCH-BOOK 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has a pride 

in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, notwithstanding the 
seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that 
neatness and propriety of person which is almost inherent in an 
Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and consideration along 
^he road ; has frequent conferences with the village housewives, who 
look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems 
to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. 
The moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he throws 
down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to 
the care of the hostler ; his duty being merely to drive them from one 
stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the 
pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air 
of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by 
an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those 
nameless hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and 
do all kinds of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings 
of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to 
him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions 
about hoi^ses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavor 
to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that has a coat to 
his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, 
and is an embryo coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in 
my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance 
throughout the journey. A stage-coach, however, carries animation 
always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The 
horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a general bustle. 
Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and band-boxes 
to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave 
of the group that accompanies them. In the meantime, the coachman 
has a world of small commissions to execute ; sometimes he delivers a 
hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the 
door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and v.'ords 
of sly import, hands to some half- blushing, half-laughing housemaid 
an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach 
rattles through the village, every one runs to "Aio, wi:idow, and you 
have glances on every side af fresh country faces, and blooming, gig- 
gling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlorrj and 
wise men, who take their stations there lOr the important purpose of 
seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot i;:. generally at the black- 
smith's, to whom the passing ^f the coach is an event fruitful of much 
speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as 
the vehicle whirls ])y ,° the 'Cyclops round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty 
specter in brawn paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the hai 



TBE 8TAGE-C0AGM. 131 

dl: for a mom nt, and permits tlie asthmatic engine to heave a long- 
dn.wn sigli, wliilo he glares through the murky smoke and sulphurous 
rjlo.ims uf the smithy. 

I'orhnps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual 
anlm^i/iiion '-.o the :;ountry, for it seemed 'o me as if everybody was in 
good looks and good spirits. Game., poultry, and other luxuries oi 
the ti-blc were in brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers, 
bu^.chers and fruiterers' shops were thr nged with customers. The 
l^ousowives were stirring briskly al^ou"!: putting their dwellings inj 
order ; and tho rjlossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries/ 
'jegan to appear at the windows. The ccene brought to mind an old 
writer':: account of Christmas preparations. " Now capons and hens 
besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all 
die -for in twelvo days a multitude of people will not be fed with a 
litule. NoW plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies 
anc broth. N^w or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
'.anoe and sing tc get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. Tlie 
.'ountry maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she 
forgots a pair of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of 
holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and 
cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will 
sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from 
]^y little traveling companions. They had been looking out of the 
3oach- windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cot- 
iage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of 
]( y- -" There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " 
cried he happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 

A"!; the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in 
fi\,'ory, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superannuated 
ooiater, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, 
\, 1th a ::haggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by 
the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who 
wriggled lii#whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object 
of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some diffi- 
culty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the 
eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and 
barking before him, and the others holding John's hands ; both talk- 
ing at once and overpowering him with questions about home and 
with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which 
I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated; for I 
was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known 
care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. 



13:^ BKETCE-BOOTL 

We stopped a few moments afterward to water the horses , and on 
resuming our route a tarn of tlie road brouglit us in siglit of a neat 
country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Ban- 
tam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned 
out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, 
hut a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass 
the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw, oui 
one side, the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a win- 
dow. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of 
convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an 
English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung rounJ with copper 
and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there with a 
Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were sus- 
pended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking 
beside the fire-place, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well- 
scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold 
round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two 
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of in- 
ferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast^, while others 
sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken 
Settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backward 
and forward, under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady ; but 
still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word and 
have a rallying laugh with the group round the fire. The scene 
completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- 
winter : 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 

To reverence Winter's silver hair ; 

A handsome hostess, merry host, 

A pot of ale and now a toast, 

Tobacco and a good coal fire. 

Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the 
door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the 
lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew.' 
I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I 
was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good-hu- 
mored young fellow, with whom I had once traveled on the con- 
tinent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of 
an old fellow-traveler always brings up the recollection of a thousand 
pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all 
these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible ; and finding 
that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of 

* Poor Robin's Almanac, 1694. 



mmSTMAS EVK 133 

observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at liis 
father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and 
which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a soli- 
tary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you of 
a hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." His rea- 
soning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for 
universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little 
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his 
invitation ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments \ 
was on my wiay to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Eobm ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, wea.-^les, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew-time 

To the next prime . 



Cabtweight. 



It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chaise 
whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post-boy smacked his 
whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. 
" He knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, " and 
is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer 
of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devo- 
tee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up something 
of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you 
will rarely meet with now-a-days in its purity — the old English coun- 
try gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time 
in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the 
strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. 
My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham* for his 
text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his own mind, 
that there was no condition more truly honorable and enviable than that 
of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes 
the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for 
the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is 
deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on 
the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is amoag the 



* Peacham' s Complete Gentleman, 1633. 



134 BKBTGB-BOOK 

authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, 
wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their suc- 
cessors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few 
centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its peculiar manners 
and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in 
rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, 
he has that most enviable of all Iblessings to an Englishman, an op- 
portunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. 
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a 
great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, 
and in general is known simply by the appellation of ' The 'Squire ; ' a 
title which has been accorded to the head of the family since time 
immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy 
old father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that might 
otherwise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at 
length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnifi- 
cent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes 
and flowers. The huge square columns that supported the gate 
were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the 
porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in 
shrubbery. 

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through 
the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, 
with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman 
immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly 
upon her, I had a full view of the little primitive dame, dressed very 
much in antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her 
silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came 
curtseying forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house, keep- 
ing Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they could not do without 
him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk through the 
park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise 
should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, 
among the naked branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled 
through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was 
sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there sparkled 
as the moonbeams caught a frosty crystal ; and at a distance might 
be seen a tliin transparent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds, 
and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked round him with transport : — " How often," 
said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on 
school vacations ! How often have I played under these trees when 
a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 135 

those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always 
scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on 
family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with 
the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He 
was very particular that we should play the old English games ac- 
cording to their original form ; and consulted old books for prece- 
dent and authority for every ' merry disport ; ' yet, I assure you, 
there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the 
good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the 
happiest place in the world, and I value this delicious home-feeling 
as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts 
and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low de- 
gree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's bell and the 
rattling of the chaise, came bounding open-mouthed across the lawn. 

-The little dogs and all, 



Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me I 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was sur- 
rounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful 
animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly 
thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It 
was an irregular building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of 
the architecture of different periods. One wing was evidently very 
ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and over- 
run with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small diamond- 
shaped panes of glass glittered with the moon-beams. The rest of 
the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, hav- 
ing been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his 
ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The 
grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of 
artificial fl.ower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy 
stone ballustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and 
a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely care- 
ful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its original sta,te. He ad- 
mired this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was 
courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted 
imitation of nature and modern gardening had sprung up with 
modern republican lotions, but did not suit a monarchical govern- 
ment — it smacked of the leveling system. I could not help smiling 
at this introduction of politics into gardening, though 1 expressed 
^ some apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather in- 
tolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was 
almost the only instance in vvhich he had ever heard his father med- 



136 SKETCH-BOOK 

die witli politics ; and lie believed lie had got tliis notion from a 
member of Parliament wbo once passed a few weeks with him. 
The 'Squire was gjad of any argument to defend his clipped yew 
trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by 
modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and 
now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building. 
This, Bracebriege said, must proceed from the servant's hall, where 
a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even encouraged, by the 
'Squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every- 
thing was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up 
the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, 
steal the white loaf, bob- apple, and snap-dragon ; the Yule clog 
and Christmas candle were regularly burned, and the mistletoe, with 
its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty 
house-maids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring 
repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival 
being announced, the 'Squire came out to receive us, accompanied 
by his two other sons ; one a young officer in the army, home on 
leave of absence ; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. 
The 'Squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver 
hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance ; in which a 
physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint 
or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; as the evening 
was far advanced, the 'Squire would not permit us to change our 
traveling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which 
was assembled in a large old fashioned hall. It was composed of 
different branches of a numerous family connection, where there 
were the usual proportions of old uncles and aunts, comfortable mar- 
ried dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, 
half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. 
They were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; 
others conversing round the fire-place ; at one end of the hall was a 
group of young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender 
and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion 
of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, 
showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked 
through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a 
peaceful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young Brace- 
bridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-bouses and kitchens, at Christmas ; a'ldi 
the young men have the privilege of kisriing the girls under it, pIu-Qk^ig each im\» 
a berry from the hush. When the berries are all plucked, the pnnlege ceasest 



CHBI8TMAS EYE. 137 

called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the 
'Squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to something of its 
primitive state. Over the heavy projecting fire-place was suspended 
a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, and on 
the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an 
enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serv- 
ing as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the 
corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and gther 
sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous workman- 
ship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had 
been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole 
presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace, 
to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous 
log, glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light 
and heat ; this I understood was the yule clog, which the 'Squire was 
particular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, ac- 
cording to ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old 'Squire, seated in his hereditary 
elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking 
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness 
to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yr.wned, would look fondly up in his 
master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again 
to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emana- 
tion from the heart in genuine hospitality, which cannot be described, 
but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I 
had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the 
worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as much at home as if 1 
had been one of the family. 

* The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into 
the house with great ceremony, on Chrismas eve, laid in the fire-place, and lighted 
with the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, 
and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Chrismas candles ; but in tb"^ 
cottages, the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yute 
clog was to burn all night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck; 

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : 

Come bring with a noise, 
My merrie, merrie boys, • 

The Chrismas Log to the firing ; 
While my good dame she 
Bids ye all be free, 
And drink to your heart's desiring. 

Thv. yule clog is still burned in many farm -houses and kitchens in England, partie 
ularly in the north ; and there are several superstitions connected with it among tha 
peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or a person 
bare-footed, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the ^ule clog is 
carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



188 SKETCH-BOOK. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up 
in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, 
and around which were several family portraits decorated with holly 
and ivy. Beside the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly 
polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly 
spread with substantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of 
frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk With rich spices, 
being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy 
to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and 
finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed 
of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we 
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors of 
an eccentric personage, whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with 
the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little 
man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped 
like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with small-pox, with 
a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He 
iad an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurk- 
ing waggery of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes 
with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harpings upon old 
themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles 
did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight, during 
supper, to keep a young girl next him in a continual agony of stifled 
laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, 
who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the 
company, who laughed at everything he said or did and at every turn 
of his countenance. I could not wonder at it ; for he must have 
been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate 
Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, with the assist- 
ance of a burned cork and pocket-handkerchief ; and cut an orange into 
such a ludicrous caricature that the young folks were ready to die with 
laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge, He was an 
old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful man- 
agement, was sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the 
family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes visiting 
one branch, and sometimes another quite remote, as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connections and small fortunes in Eng- 
land. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying the 
present moment ; and his frequent change of scene and company pro- 
vented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits with which 
old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and inter 



OMniSTMAS EVK 18§ 

marriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a 
great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder 
ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually 
considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels 
among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in 
the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late 
years he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he 
had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jump 
ing with his humor in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an 
old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his 
last-mentioned talent ; for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced 
wines and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than 
Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. He be- 
thought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, 
and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasion- 
ally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a 
quaint old ditty : 

Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together ; 

And when they appear, 

Let us make such a cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper 
was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming 
all the evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some 
of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was 
told, of the establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the 
village, was oftener to be found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own 
home ; the old gentleman being fond of the sound of "Harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; some 
of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire himself figured down 
several couple with a partner with whom he aflarmed he had danced 
at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who 
seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and 
the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accom- 
plishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was en 
deavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoom, and other 
graces of the ancient school : but he had unluckily assorted himself 
with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild 
vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his 
sober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-sorted matches to which 
antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone J 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden 
aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with 
impunity ; he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to teas© 



140 SKETCH-BOOK. 

Ms aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, lie was a um- 
versa! favorite among the women. The most interesting couple in 
the dance was the young oflBcerp and a ward of the 'Squires, a beauti- 
ful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had 
noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little 
kindness growing up between them ; and, indeed, the young soldier 
was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, 
and handsome ; and, like most young British officers of late years, 
had picked up various small accomplishments on the continent — he 
could talk French and Italian — draw landscapes — sing very tolerably 
— dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : 
— what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could 
resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ? 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and lolling 
against the old marble fire-place, in an attitude which I am half in- 
clined to suspect was studied, began the little French air of the Trouba- 
dour. The 'Squire, howc'er, exclaimed against having anything on 
Christmas eve but good old English ; upon v/hich the young minstrel, 
casting up his eye for a moment, as if iii an effort of memory, struck 
into another strain, and with a charming air of gallantry gave Her. 
rick's "Night-Piece of Julia" : 

Her eyes ilie glow-worm lend thee, 
Tbe shooting stars attend thee, 

And tho elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will o'-th'-Wisp misli^ht thee ; 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright the«. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the aaoon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number, 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
•^ Thus, thus W come unto me : 

And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 
My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to 
the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; she, however, 
was certainly unconscious of any such application ; for she never 
looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor ; her face 
was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle 



CHRISTMAS DAt. 141 

heaving of tlie bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exer- 
cise of the dance : indeed, so great was her indifference that she was 
amusing herself with puckering to pieces a choice bouquet of hot- 
house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay 
lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night, with the kind-hearted old 
custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on my way 
to my chamber, the dying embers of the yule clog still sent forth a 
dusky glow ; and had it not been the season when ' ' no spirit dares 
stir abroad," I should have been half tempted to steal from my room 
at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous 
furniture of which mighc have been fabricated in the days of the 
giants. The room was paneled with cornices of heavy carved work, 
in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely intermingled, 
and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from 
the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty 
tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow- window. I had scarcely 
got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break forth in the air 
just below the window ; I listened, and found it proceeded from a 
band, which I concluded to be the waits from some neighboring vil- 
lage. They went round the house, playing under the windows. I 
drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moon- 
beams fell through the upper part of the casement, partially lighting 
up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became 
more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with quiet and moonlight. 
I listened and listened — they became more and more tender and re- 
mote, and as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow 
and I fell asleep. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Dark and dull night file hence away, 
And give the honor to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the cMlling winter's mom 
Smile like a field beset with com ? 
Or smell like to a meade new-shome, 
Thus 01'- a siddon ?— come and see 
The cause, why things thus fragrant be. 

Heerick. 

When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of 
the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the iden- 



14^ SKETCE-BOOK 

tity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While t 
lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering 
outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir 
of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of 
which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he wa8 bom 
On Christmas day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and 
beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter 
could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not 
more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of 
the house, singing at every chamber door, but my sudden appearance 
frightened them into mute bashf ulness. They remained for a moment 
playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a 
shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, 
they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I 
heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this 
stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my cham- 
"ber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful 
landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the 
foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees and 
herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from 
the cottage chimneys hanging over it ; and a church with its dark 
spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. The house was sur- 
rounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morning 
was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening had 
been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every 
blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright 
morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. A 
robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash, that hung its clusters 
of red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the 
sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes ; and a peacock was dis- 
playing all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and 
gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace wall?; below 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared to invite me 
to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the 
old wing of the house, where I found the principal part of the family 
already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, has- 
socks, and large prayer-books ; the servants were seated on benches 
below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the 
gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses ; 
and I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with 
great gravity and decorum. 



CHBISTMAS DAK 148 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Brace- 
bridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author, 
Herrick ; and it had been adapted to a church melody by Master 
Simon. As there were several good voices among the household, the 
effect was extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the 
exaltation of heart and sudden sally of grateful feeling with which 
the worthy 'Squire delivered one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his 
voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune . 

'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 
And giv'st me WassaUe bowles to drink 

Spic'd to the brink. 

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land, 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 
Twice ten for one. 

I afterward understood that ecrly morning service was read on 
every Sunday and ~aint'c: day throughout the year, either by Mr, 
Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once almost uni- 
versally the case at the scats of the nobility and gentry of England, 
and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; 
for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity 
prevalent in those households, where the occasional exercise of a 
beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key- 
note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the 'Squire denominated true old 
English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern 
breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes 
of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English 
heartiness : and though he admitted them to his table to suit the pal- 
ates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, 
and ale on the sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 
bridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by every- 
body but the 'Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentlemen- 
like dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment ; from the 
frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound — the last of which was 
of a race that had been in the family time out of mind — they were 
all obedient to a dog whistle which hung to Master Simon's button- 
hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasion- 
ally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sun- 
shine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the force of 
the 'Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily molded ballus- 
trades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of proud 
aristocracy. 



144 SKETCH-BOOK 

There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the 
place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of 
tliem that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently cor- 
rected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that accord- 
ing to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say 
a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a slight 
air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of 
quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skull: of foxes, or a 
building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir 
Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to uiis bird "both under- 
standing and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set up his 
tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold 
the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, 
he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as 
it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so 
whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were birds of 
some consequence at the Hall ; for Frank Bracebridge informed me 
that they were great favorites with his father, who was extremely 
careful to keep up the breed, partly because they belonged to chiv- 
alry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the olden 
time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about 
them highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was 
accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a pea- 
cock perched upon an antique stone ballustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry oif, having an appointment at the 
parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some 
music of his selection. There was something extremely agreeable 
in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess 
I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors 
who certainly were not in the range of every day reading. I men- 
tioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with 
a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to 
some half a dozen old authors which the 'Squire had put into his 
hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious 
fit, as he sometimes had on a rainy day or a long winter evening. 
Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Markham's Country 
Contentments •, the Tretyse ol Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, 
Knight ; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient 
worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, like all men 
who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of 
idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs, they 
were chiefly picked out of old books in the 'Squire's library, and 
adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the 
last century. His practical application of scraps of literature, how- 
ever, had caused him to be looi'-/:>d upon as a prodigy of book-kuowl 



CHRISTMAS DAT. 145 

edge by all tlie grooms, tuntsmen, and small sportsmen of tlie neigh- 
borhood. 

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the village 
bell, and I was told that the 'Squire was a little particular in having 
his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a 
day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser ob- 
served,— 

At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small. 

*'If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, " 1/ 
can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achieve- - 
ments. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a 
band -from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for 
their improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my 
father's pack of hounds, according to the directions of Jervaise Mark- 
ham, in his Country Contentments ; for the bass he has sought out 
all the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud ringing 
mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he 
has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neigh- 
borhood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to' keep 
m tune ; your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and 
capricious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning , though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the 
most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old 
building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile 
from tlie park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which 
seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted 
with a yew tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the 
dense foliage of which apertures had been formed to admit light 
into the small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the 
parson issued forth and preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as is 
often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, 
but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meager, black-look- 
ing man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from 
each ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, 
like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great 
skirts, and pockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer- 
book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in 
large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a 
chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly 
after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black- 
letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman 
character. The editions of Caxton and W^nkiu de Worde were his 



146 &KETOH-BOOK 

deliglit ; and lie was indefatigable in his researches after such old 
English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness. 
In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr, Bracebridge, he had 
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday cus- 
toms of former times ; and had been as zealous in the inquiry as if 
he had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plod- 
ding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any 
track of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; indiffer- 
ent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wis- 
dom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored 
over these old volumes so intensely that they seemed to have been 
reflected into his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index 
of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch, we found the parson rebuking the 
gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens 
with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an un- 
holy plant, profaned by having been used by the ©ruidsin their mys- 
tic ceremonies ; and though it might be innocently employed in the 
festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by 
the fathers of the church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred 
purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor sexton 
was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his 
taste before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; on the 
walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just 
beside the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay 
the eflBgy of a warrior in armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of his 
having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had 
signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture 
hung over the fire-place in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated 
the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of ceremonious devo- 
tion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school and a man 
of old family connections. I observed, too, that he turned over the 
leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish, possibly 
to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers, 
and which had the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most 
solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixec 
intently on the choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and 
emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whim- 
sical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I 
particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a 
retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed 
to have blown his face to a point ; and there was another, a shois* 



CHBI8TMA8 DAT, 147 

pnrsy man, stooping and laboring at a bass viol, so as to show nothing 
but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an ostrich. There 
were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the 
keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the 
gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona 
fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from the 
same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies, not unlike 
those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the 
vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and 
some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by trav- 
eling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars 
than the keenest fox-hunter, to be in at the death. But the great 
trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master 
Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily 
there was a blunder at tne very outset — the musicians became flurried; 
Master Simon was in a fever ; everything went on lamely and irregu- 
larly, until they came to a chorus beginning, ' ' Now let us sing with 
one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company ; all 
became discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and got to 
the end as well, or rather, as soon as he could ; excepting one old 
chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and pinching a long 
sonorous nose, who, happening to stand a little apart, and being 
wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling 
his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at 
least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremo- 
nies of Christmas and the propriety of observing it, not merely as a 
day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the correctness of 
his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them 
by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysos- 
tom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints and fathers from whom 
he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the 
necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which 
no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the 
good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, 
in the course of his researches on the subject of Christmas, got com- 
pletely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the revolution, when 
the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the 
church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proc- 
lamation of Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times 
past and knew but little of the present. 

* From the Flying^ Eagle, a small gazette published December 24, 1652—" Th6 
House spent much time this day about the business of the navy, for settling the 
affairs at sea, and before they rose were presented with a terrible remonstrance 
against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16 ; 1 Cor. xv. \\ 



148 BEETCH-BOOK 

Shut tip among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his anti. 
quated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes 
of the day, while the era of the revolution was mere modern history. 
He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery perse- 
cution of poor mince-pie throughout the land ; when plum porridge 
was denounced as " mere popery," and roast beef as anti-Christian ; 
and that Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the 
merry court of King Charles at the restoration. He kindled into 
warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host of imaginary foes 
with whom he had to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with old 
Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round 
Heads on the subject of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging 
his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the 
traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this 
joyful anniversary of the church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more im- 
mediate eifects ; for on leaving the church, the congregation seemed 
one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined 
by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, 
greeting and shaking hands : and the children ran about crying, 
" Ule ! Ule !" and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the par- 
don, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down from 
days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to tho 'Squire as he 
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appear- 
ance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the Hall, to 
take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I heard 
blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me that, in 
the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten 
the true Christmas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowing with generous 
and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which com- 
manded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment now 
and then reached our ears ; the 'Squire paused for a few moments, 
and looked arouiid with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty 
of the day was, of itself, suflBcient to inspire philanthropy. Notwith- 
standing the frostiness of the morning the sun in his cloudless jour- 
ney had acquired sufficiont power to melt away the thin covering of 
snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green 

17 ; and in honor of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1; 
Bev. i. 10 ; Psalms cxviii. 24 ; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8 : Psalms Ixxxiv. 10 ; in 
which Christmas is called Acti-christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists 
who observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in con- 
sultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and 
resolved to sit on the following day, which was commonly called Christmas day." 

*Ule! Ule! 
Three puddings in a pule ; 
Crack aut3 aud cry ule I 



Christmas day. u^ 

which adorns an Englisli landscape even in midwinter. Large tracts 
of smiling verdure, contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the 
shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the 
broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glit- 
tering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to 
contribute to the thin haze that hung just above the surface of the 
earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth 
and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the 'Squire 
observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking through the 
chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thawing every heart into a flow. 
He pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from 
the chimneys of the comfortable farm-houses and low-tLatched cot- 
tages. "I love," said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; 
it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are 
sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the 
world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join with 
poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest 
festival : 

Those who at Christmas do repine, 

And would fain hence despatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 

Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him. 

The 'Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games 
and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among the 
lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when the old halls of 
castles and manor-houses were thrown open at day-light ; when the 
tables were covered wiih brawn, and beef, and humming ale ; when 
the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and 
poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* " Our old 
games and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry 
made him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and 
kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one of our old poets, 

I like them well— the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 

** The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have almost lost our 
simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the 

* An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christmas day 
in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors entered his hall by day-break. 
The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks went plentifully about with 
toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sau- 
sage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden 
(i. e. the cook) by the arms and run her round the market place till she is shame (J 
^ ber laziness. Hound about our Sea- Coal Fire. 



156 SKETCH-BOOK. 

higher chasses, and seem to think their interests are separate. They 
have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to 
alehouse politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep 
them in good-humor in these hard times would be for the nobility 
and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more am( ng 
the country people, and set the merry old English games going 
again." 

Such was the good 'Squire's project for mitigating public discon- 
tent : and, indeed, ho had once attempted to put his doctrine in 
practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the 
holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did not 
understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many 
uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by all the 
vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighbor- 
hood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. 
Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the decent part of 
the neighboring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christmas day, and 
with distributing boef, and bread, and ale among the poor, that they 
might make merry in their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard 
from a distance. A bund of country lads, without coats, their shirt- 
sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with greens, 
and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the avenue, fol- 
lowed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and 
the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreat- 
ing, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the 
music ; while one, wliimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of 
whicli Haunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the 
dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations. 

The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and 
delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to 
the times when the Romans held possession of the island ; plainly 
proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the 
ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encour- 
aged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be fol- 
lowed up by rough cudgel-play and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained 
with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. The 'Squire himself 
mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demon- 
strations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived two or 
three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to 
their mouths, when the 'Squire's back was turned, malting something 
of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they 
caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly de- 



TEE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 151 

mure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed more at their 
ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made him well 
known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every 
farm-house and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; 
romped with their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bach- 
elor, the humble-bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer 
and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the 
gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and 
familiarity of those- above them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters 
into their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly 
uttered by a patron gladdens the heart of the dependent more than 
oil and wine. When the 'Squire had retired, the merriment in- 
creased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly be- 
tween Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, 
who appeared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed all his 
companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into 
a gratuitous laugh before tiiey could well understand them. 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : as 1 
passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in 
a small court, and looking through a window tiiat commanded it, I 
perceived a band of wandering musicians, with pandean pipes and 
tambourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a 
smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking 
on. In the midst of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse of my face 
at the window, and coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected 
eonfusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast I 

Let every man be jolly, 
Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly, 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning, 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee '1 bury 't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. 

WiTHEEs's Juvenilia, 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge 
in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, which ho 



153 SKBTGB-BOOK. 

informed me was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The 'Squire 
kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall ; and the rolling-pin 
struck upon the dresser by the cook summoned the servants to carry 
in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 
And all the waiters in a trice, 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand- 
Marched boldly up, like our train band. 
Presented, and away.* 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 'Squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs 
had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame 
went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The 
great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been profusely 
decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly and ivf had likewise 
been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, 
which I understood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, 
by-tlie-by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly having 
the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the painting had 
been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had 
been found in a lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by 
the 'Squire, who at once determined it to be the armor of the family 
hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his 
own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A 
sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was 
a display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Bel- 
shazzar's parade of the vessels of the temj-le ; "flagons, cans, cups, 
beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers ; " the rjorgeous utensils of good 
companionship that had gradually accumulated through many genera- 
tions of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two yule candles, 
beaming like two stars of the f\ 4 magnitude ; other lights were dis- 
tributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament 
of silver. 

"■ We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of min. 
strelsy ; the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace, 
and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power than mel- 
ody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious 
assemblage of countenances ; those who were not handsome were, at 
least, happy ; and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favored 
visage. I aways consider an old English family as well worth study- 
ing as a collection of Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. 
There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of 
the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may b« from having 

* 3ir John Suckling, 



THE CEBI8TMAS DINNER. 153 

continually before tlieir eyes those rows of old family portraits with 
which the mansions of this country are stocked ; certain it is that the 
quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in 
these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a 
whole picture-gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to 
generation, almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of the 
kind was to be observed in the worthy company around me. Many 
of their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely 
copied by succeeding generations ; and there was one little girl, in 
particular, of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose, and an an- 
tique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the 'Squire's, being, 
as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of 
his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, such as 
is commonly addressed to the deity in these unceremonious days ; but 
a long, courtly, well- worded one of the ancient school. There was 
now a pause, as if something was expected ; when suddenly the but- 
ler entered the ball with some degree of bustle ; he was attended by 
a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish 
on which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with rosemary, witli 
a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the 
head of the table. The moment this pageant made its appearance, 
the harper struck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young 
Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the 'Squire, gave, with an air of 
the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as 
follows 

Caput apri def ero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
W^ith garlands gay and rosemary. 
\pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though preparecf to witness many of these little eccentricities, from 
being apprized of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet I confess the 
parade with which so odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed 
me, until I gathered from the conversation of the 'Squire and the par- 
son that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head 
— a dish formerly served up with much ceremony and the sound of 
minstrelsy and song at great tables on Christmas day. "I like the 
old custom," said the 'Squire, " not merely because it is stately and 
pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the college at Oxford, 
at which I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it 
brings to mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the 
noble old college hall — and my fellow-students loitering about in their 
black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such ass^ 



154 SKETCH-BOOK 

ciations, and wlio was always more taken up with tlie text tlian the 
sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol ; which he 
aflBrmed was different from that sung at college. He went on, with 
the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading, 
accompanied by sundry annotations ; addressing himself at first to 
the company at large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to 
other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an under 
voice, to a fat- headed old gentleman next him, who was silently en- 
gaged in the discussion of a huge plate-full of turkey.* 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an 
epitome of country abundance in this season of overflowing larders. 
A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as mine host 
termed it ; being, as he added, " the standard of old English hospi- 
tality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." 
There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi- 
dently something traditional in their embellishments ' but about 
which, as I did not like to appear over- curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated 
with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which 
overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the 'Squire 
confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a 
peacock pie was certainly the most autlientical ; but there had been 
such a mortality among the peacocks this season that he could not 
prevail upon himself to have one killed; f 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day is still ob- 
served in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. 1 was favored by the parson with a 
copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my i^^da^flL 
are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire : 

The boar's head in hand bear I, 
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary ; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
Quot estis in convivio, 
Caput apri defero. 
Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus deck'd with a gay garland 
Let us eervire cantico. 
Caput apri defero, etc. 

Our steward hath provided this 
In honor of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
In Eeginensi Atrio. 
Caput apri defero, 
etc., etc., etc. 

+ The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. Some- 
times it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust 
in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end the tail was displaye<t 



THE CHRISTMAS DmNER. 155 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, wlio may not 
have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am 
a little given, were I to mention the other make-shifts of this worthy 
old humorist, by which he was endeavoring to follow up, though at 
humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and 
relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, 
and seemed all well versed in their parts ; having doubtless been 
present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of pro- 
found gravity with which the butler and other servants executed the 
duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old fashioned 
look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in the household, 
and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion and the 
humors of its lord ; and most probably looked upon all his whimsical 
regulations as the established laws of honorable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge sil- 
ver vessel, of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed be- 
fore the 'Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; being 
the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents 
had been prepared by the 'Squire himself ; for it was a beverage 
in the skillful mixture of which he particularly prided himself : 
alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension 
of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well 
make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the 
richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted 
apples bobbing about the surface.* 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look 
of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised 
it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, 



Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant 
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ahcient 
oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock and pie." 

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast ; and Massinger, 
in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well aa 
other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times : 
Men may talk of Country Christmasses. '■ 

Their thirty pound butter"d eggs, their pies of carps' tongues : 
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris ; tfie carcasses of three fat wethers bruised 
for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock ! 

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ,• with nut- 
meg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown beverage 
is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearth of substantial farmers 
at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's "Wool, and it is celebrated by Herrick in his 
Twelfth Night : 

Next crowne the bowle full 
With gentle Lamb's Wool, 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger. 
With store of ale too ; 
And thus ye must doe 
To make the WMsaile a swinget; 



156 8KETGH-B00£. 

lie sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his ex. 
ample according to the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient 
fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met together."* 

There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of 
Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the 
ladies. But when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both 
hands, and with the air of a boon companion, struck up an old 
Wassail Chanson ; 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round about-a, 
Fill 
' Still, 

Let the world say what it will. 

And drink your fill all out-a. 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a kmg, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a. + 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, 
to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of 
rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he was 
accused of having a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the 
ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed 
old gentleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a 
slow hound ; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though 
rather dull at starting game, are unrivaled for their talents in hunt- 
ing it down. At every pause in the general conversation, he renewed 
his bantering in pretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me 
with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered 
a home thrast. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on 
the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took occasion to in- 
form me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously 
fine woman and drove her own curricle. 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, and 
though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a 
scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed 
more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevo- 
lent being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind 
heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to 

* " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his 
cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three 
times, J^assel, Wassel, Wassel, and then tlie chappell (chaplain) was to answer with 
a son^.'' ''—Archceologia. 

i From Poor Bobin's Almanac. 



TSE CnmSTMAS DINNEB. 157 

freshen into smiles ! The joyous disposition of tlie worthy 'Squire 
was perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and dispos^ to 
make all the world happy ; and the little eccentricities of his humor 
did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation as usual became 
still more animated ; many good things were broached which had 
been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a 
lady's ear ; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much 
wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent 
ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good- 
humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial 
companionship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small and 
the laughter abundant. 

The 'Squire told several long stories of early college pranks and 
adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ; though 
in looking at the latter it required some efEort of imagination to figure 
such a little dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what 
men may be made by their different lots in life ; the 'Squire had left 
the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous 
enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty 
and florid old age ; while the poor parson, on the contrary, had dried 
and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows 
of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished 
fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and, as the 'Squire 
hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid whom 
they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an 
*• alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiog- 
nomy, I verily believe was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have 
rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offense at the 
imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of 
sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder, as their 
jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a 
grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer com- 
plexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even 
gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed 
me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work entitled 
"Cupid's Solicitor for Love ; " containing store of good advice for 
bachelors, and which he promised to lend me ; the first verse was to 
this effect : 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
£at boldly say. Widow, thou must he mio'^t 



158 BRETGH-BOOK. 

This song inspired tlie fat-headed old gentleman, who made several 
attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe Miller, that was pat to the 
purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recoU'Scting 
the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show 
the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, 
and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this junc- 
ture we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the 
private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tem- 
pered with a proper love of decorum. 

, After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the 
younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kinds of noisy 
mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with 
their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in wit- 
nessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing-room 
on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game 
of blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their 
revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill the office of that ancient 
potentate, the Lord of Misrule,"^ was blinded in the midst of the hall. 
The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about 
Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the s'kircsof his coat, and tickling 
him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her 
flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her 
frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was 
the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness with which Master Simon 
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in cor- 
ners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the 
rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company ispated 
round the fire listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a 
high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, 
which had been brought from the library for his particular accommo- 
dation. From this venerable piece of furniture, with which his 
shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was 
dealing forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends 
of the surrounding country, with which he had become acquainted in 
the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think 
that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with super- 
stition, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life 
in a sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, 
so often filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He gave us 
several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, con- 

* At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was lodged a 
lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disported, and the like had ye in the house of 
every nobleman of honor ; or good worshippe, were he snirituall or temporal!.— » 
Stow. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, 159 

ceming the effigy of tlie crusader, wliich. lay on tlie tomb by the church 
aitar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that . part of the 
country, it had always been regarded with feelings of superstition by 
the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb 
and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly 
when it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on 
the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when 
the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the 
belief that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or 
some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and 
restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, 
over which the specter kept watch ; and there was a story current of 
a sexton, in old times, who endeavored to break his way to the coffin 
at night ; but just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the 
marble hand of the ef^gj, which stretched him senseless on the pave- 
ment. These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier 
among the rustics ; yet, when night came on, there were many of the 
stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath 
that led across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared 
to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the vicinity. His 
picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to 
have something supernatural about it : for they remarked that, in 
whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were 
still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had 
been born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip 
among the maid-servants, afiirmed that in her young days she had 
often heard say that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all 
kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, 
the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, 
ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the 
tomb ; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself ; not that he needed it — for he rode through closed gates and 
even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pass 
between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a 
sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced 
by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond 
of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbor- 
ing gossips with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high 
favor on account of her talent for the marvelous. He was himself a 
great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he 
could not believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, 
must live in a kind of fairy land. 

While we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were 
suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, 



160 SKETCH-BOOK, 

in -wliicii were mingled something like tlie clang of rude minstrelsy, 
with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door 
suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the room, that 
might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of 
Fairy. Tliat indefatigable spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful dis- 
charge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a 
Christmas mummery, or masquing ; and having called in to his 
assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe 
■^or anything that should occasion rompmg and merriment, they had 
carried it into instant eiiect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; 
the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to 
yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for severjil 
generations ; the younger part of the company had been privately 
convened from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened 
out into a burlesque imitation of an antique masque.* 

Master Simon led the van as " Ancient Christmas," quaintly ap- 
pareled in a ruff, a short cloak which had very much the aspect of 
one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have 
served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the 
days of the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved boldly 
forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy 
of a December blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, 
dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of 
faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. 

The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of 
Kendal green and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, 
and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to a young 
gallant in presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm 
in a pretty rustic dress, as "Maid Marian." The rest of the train 
had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in 
the finery of the ancient bells of the Bracebridge line, and the strip- 
lings be whiskered with burned cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, 
hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the characters 
of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient 
tnasquings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the 
appropriate character of Misrule ; and I observed that he exercised 
tather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages 
of the pageant. 

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according to 
ftncient custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. 
Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with 

* Masquings or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times; and 
fce wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribution to fur- 
jsh dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to havf 
taksn the idea of hia frcm Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmi^ 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 161 

which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless 
though giggling Dame Miuce Pie. It was followed by a dance from 
all the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as 
though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames 
to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross-hands 
and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and riga- 
doons ; and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the middle, 
through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy 'Squire contemplated these fantastic sports and this 
resurrection of his old wardrobe with the sira pie relish of childish 
delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely 
hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was 
discoursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance of the- 
Pa von, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* 
For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes 
of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to 
see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from 
among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing oi^ his 
apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. 
I felt also an interest in the scene, from the consideration that these 
fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, 
perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them were 
still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled 
with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest ; it was suited to 
the time and place ;. and as the old manor-house almost reeled with 
mirth amd wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long-de- 
parted years. 



But enough of Christmas and its gambols : it is time for me to 
pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question asked by my 
graver readers, " To what purpose is all this — how is the world to be 
made wiser by this talk?" Alas ! is there not wisdom enough extant 
for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there not thousands 
of abler pens laboring for its improvement ? — It is so much pleasanter 
to please than to instruct — to play the companion rather than the 
preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the 
aiass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions 
may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But in writing to 
amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disappointment. If, how- 
ever, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out one 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a pea- 
cock, says, "It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently 
was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their 
gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, 
ths motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock."— £fi«^or^ of Mum, 
IRVING 1—6 



162 SKETCH-BOOK. 

wrinkle from tlie brow of care, or beguile the lieavy beart of one 
moment of sorrow — if I can now and tlien penetrate tbrougb tbe 
gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human 
nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow be- 
ings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written en- 
tirely in vain. 



[The following modicum of local history was lately put into my 
bands by an odd- looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and 
snufE-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted in the course of 
one of my tours of observation through the center of that great wil- 
derness, the City. I confess that I was a little dubious at first 
whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon 
inquiring travelers like myself, and which have brought our general 
character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On makings 
proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory as. 
surances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that 
he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very 
interesting region in which he resides, of which the following may 
be considered merely as a foretaste.] 

-■3 

LITTLE BRITAIN. 

What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases Ijing by 
me, which If I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow 
bell) would be out of charity with me.— Nashe. 

In the center of the great City of London lies a small neighborhood, 
consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable 
and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. 
Christ Church school and St. Bartholomew's hospital bound it on the 
west ; Smithfield and Long lane on the north ; Aldersgate street, like 
an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; while 
the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth street separates it from Butcher 
lane and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus 
bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above 
the intervening houses of Paternoster row, Amen corner, and Ave- 
Maria lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient 
times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, 
however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping 
«n at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some 
jime Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was peo- 
pled by the busy and proMe ifte© of booksellers : these also gradually 



LITTLE BRITAm. 168 

deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate street, 
settled down in Paternoster row and St. Paul's cliurcliyard, where 
they continue to increase and multiply, even at the present day. 

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces 
of its former splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble 
down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken 
carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and 
fruits and flowers, which it would perplex a naturalist to classify. 
There are also in Aldersgate street certain remains of what were once 
spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days 
been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often be found 
the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, burrow- 
ing among the relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling time- 
etained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enor- 
mous marble fireplaces. The lanes and courts also contain many 
smaller houses, not on so grand a scale ; but, like your small ancient 
gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These 
have their gable-ends to the street ; great bow- windows, with diamond 
panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low-arched doorways.* 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several 
quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one 
of the smallest but oldest edifices. My "sitting-room is an old wain- 
scoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous 
array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high- 
backed, claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which 
bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless fig- 
ured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me 
to keep together and to look down with sovereign contempt upon 
their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I have seen decayed gentry 
carry a high head among the plebeian society with which they were 
reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken 
up with a bow- window ; on the panes of which are recorded the 
names of previous occupants for many generations ; mingled with 
scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written, in characters 
which I can scarcely decipher ; and which extol the charms of many 
a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, 
and passed away. As I am an idle personage with no apparent occu- 
pation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as 
the only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and being 
curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut 
up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all tke con- 
cerns and secrets of the place. 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's-core of the city ; the 

* It is eTident that the author of this interesting commimication has included in 
ids general title of Little Britain many of tho*e little lanes and courts that b^oog 
immediately to Cloth Fair. 



164 BKETCH-BOOK 

strongliold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it 
was in its better days, witli its antiquated foUiS and fashions. Here 
flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and cus- 
toms of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on 
Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at 
Michaelmas ; they send love letters on Valentine's Day, burn the 
Pope on the Fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the 
mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum pudding are also held 
in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
grounds as the only true English wines — all others being considered 
vile outlandish beverages. 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its in- 
habitants consider the wonders of the world : such as the great bell 
of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls, the figures that 
strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock, the Monument, the lions in 
the Tower, and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still believe 
in dreams and fortune-telling ; and an old woman that lives in Bull- 
and-Mouth street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen 
goods and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be 
rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls 
dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the 
place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly con- 
cerning the old mansion-houses, in several of which it is said Strang** 
sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full-bot- 
tomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, stays, 
hoops, and lorocade, have been seen walking up and down the great 
waste chambers on moonlight nights, and are supposed to be the 
shades of the ancient proprietors in their court -dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the 
most important of the former is a tall dry old gentleman, of the name 
of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadav- 
erous countenance, full of cavities and projections : with a brown 
circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is much 
thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjuror, 
because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, 
and several snakes in bottles. He isi a great reader of almanacs and 
newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of 
plots, conspiracies, fires, earth quakes. «and volcanic eruptions, which 
Jast phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always 
some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers with their 
doses ; and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an 
uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predictions ; and has the 
prpphecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. 'b\o- man 
can make so much out of an eclipse or even an unusually dark a«.y ; 
and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his cus- 
tomers and disciples, until they were nearly frightened out of their 



LITTLE BRIT Am 165 

wits. He lias lately got liold of a popular legend or prophecy, on 
which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying cur- 
rent among the ancient Sybils, who treasure up these tilings, that 
when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with 
the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would 
take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely 
come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on tha 
repairs of the cupola of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow 
Church ; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper act- 
ually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 

'•Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, ''may go star- 
gazing and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a con. 
junction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which 
surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these 
portentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads together, wonder- 
ful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstand- 
ing that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given up the 
ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died 
suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered ; there had been 
radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at 
Manchester — the great plot in Cato street ; — and, above all, the 
Queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events are re- 
counted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look and a dismal shake of 
the head ; and being taken with his drugs and associated in the minds 
of his auditors with stuffed sea monsters, bottled serpents, and his 
own visage, which is a title page of tribulation, they have spread 
great gloom through the minds of the people in Little Britain. They 
shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe 
that they never expected any good to come of taking down that 
steeple, which, in old times, told nothing but glad tidings, as the 
history of Whittington and his cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemonger, who 
lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as mag- 
nificently lod'^ed as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his 
own Cheshircs. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and im- 
portance ; and his renown extends through Huggin lane, and Lad 
lane, and even unto Aldermaubury. His opinion is very much taken 
in the affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half 
century, together with the Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of 
England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invalu- 
able maxims, which have borne the test of time and use for centu- 
ries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as 
England is true to herself, that anything can shake her ; and he has 
much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which, somehow or 
other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He 
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain, 



166 SKETCB-BOO^. 

until of late years, when, having become rick and gr©wn into tli» 
dignity of a Sunday cane, lie begins to take his pleasure and see the 
world. He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, 
Highgate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole 
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a telescope 
and endeavoring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a 
stage-coachman of Bull-and -Mouth street but touches his hat as he 
passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach oflSce of the 
Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been 
very urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he had 
great doubts of these new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed 
thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea voyages. 

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party 
spirit ran high at one time, in consequence of two rival " Burial So- 
cieties" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan 
and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the other 
at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is 
needless to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I have 
passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable 
information as to the best mode of being buried ; the comparative 
«nerits of churchyards ; together with divers hints on the subject of 
patent iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its 
bearings, as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of 
their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily 
died away of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes 
of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely soli- 
citioas of funeral honors and of lying comfortably in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third of quite a differ- 
ent cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good humor over the 
whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned 
house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, and bear- 
ing for insignia a resplendent half -moon with a most seductive bunch 
of grapes. The whole edifice is covered with inscriptions to catch 
the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; such as, " Truman, Hanbury and 
Co.'s Entire," " Wine, Rum, and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, 
and Compounds," etc. This, indeed, has been a temple of Bacchus 
and Mom us from time immemorial. It has always been in the family 
of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the 
present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cava- 
liers of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by 
the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what WagstafE princi- 
pally prides himself upon is that Henry the Eighth, in one of his 
nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his 
famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubi- 
ous and vain-glorious boast of the landlord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by th« 



LITTLE BBITAnr. 167 

name of " the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in all 
catclies, glees, and choice stories that are traditional in the place, 
and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is 
a madcap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; but the life 
of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wag- 
staff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he has 
inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go 
with it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper 
little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist 
merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening 
of every club night he is called in to sing his " Confession of Faith," 
which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gfammer Gurton's 
needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received 
it from his father's lips ; for it had been a standing favorite at the 
Half- Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written ; nay, he 
aflBrms that his predecessors have often had the honor of singing it 
before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little 
Britain was in all its glory.* 

* As mine host of the Half -Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar to 
the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Brit- 
ain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. T would observe that the whole club 
always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of 
pewter pots. 

I cannot eate but lytle meate, 

My stomake is not good, 
But sure I thihke that I can drinke 

With him that weares a hood. 
Though I go bare take ye no care, 

I nothing am a colde, 
I stuff my skin so full within, 

Of joly good ale and olde. 

Vhoriis. Back and syde go bare, go bare, 
Both foot and hand go colde. 
But belly, God send thee good ale jnoaghe 
Whether it be new or olde. 

I have no rost, but a nut brown toste 

And a crab laid in the f yre ; 
A little breade shall do me steade, 

Much breade I not desyre. 
No frost nor snow, nor winde I trowe* 

Can hurt me if I wolde, 
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 

Of joly good ale and olde. 
^!korv9. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc 

And Tyb, my wife, that as her lyfe, 

Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
Full oft drynkes she. tyll ye may ses 

The teares run down her cheeke. 



168 SKETCH-BOOK. 

It would do one's heart good to hear on a club-night the shouts of 
merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts 
of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial man- 
sion. At such times the street is lined with listeners who enjoy a 
delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner's window, or snnfi- 
ing up the steams of a cook-shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensation 
in Little Britain ; tliese are St. Bartholomew's Fair and the Lord 
Mayor's day. Daring the time of the fair, which is held in the adjoin- 
ing regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gossiping and 
gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain are overrun 
with an irruption of strange figures and faces ; every tavern is a scene 
of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the tap- 
room morning, noon and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half -shut eyes, hats on one side, 
pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling and prozing, and sing- 
ing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum -of pri- 
vate families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other times 
among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia. There is 
no such thing as keeping maid servants within doors. Their brains 
are absolutely set madding with punch and the puppet show, the fly- 
ing horses, Siguier Polito, the fire-eater, the celebrated Mr, Paap, and 
the Irish giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday money in 
toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din 
of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's dav is the great anniversary. The Lord 
Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the 
greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses, a,s the 
summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all the sheriffs 
and aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How 
they exult in the idea that the king himself dare not enter the city 
without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar and asking permis- 
eion of the Lord Mayor ; for if he did, heaven and earth J there is no 



n a wii j »' r »>' I- 



Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle, 
Even as a maulte-worme sholde, 

And saj^th, sweete harte, I tooke my parte, 
Of this joly good ale and olde. 
Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 

Good ale doth bring men to. 
And all poor soules that have scowred bowleg 

Or have them lustily trolde, 
God aave the ly ves of them and their wives, 

Whether they be j-ounge or olde. 
fs0rm. Back and syde go bare, go hsae, etc 



LITTLE BRITAIN. 169 

knowing what might he the consequence. The man in armor who 
rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to 
cut down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city ; and 
tlien there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who 
sits at the window of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long 
as a pike-staff — Od's blood ! if he once draws that sword, majesty itself 
IS not safe ! 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good 
people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual 
barrier against all internal foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord 
Mayor has but to throw himself into the tower, call in the train bands, 
and put the standing army of beef -eaters under arms, and he may bid 
defiance to the world ! 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own 
opinions. Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this 
great fungus metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it 
as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were 
garnered up, like seed-corn, to renew the national character, when it 
had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the gen- 
eral spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it ; for though there 
might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adhe- 
rents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud 
between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and 
soon passed away. The neighbors met with good- will, parted with a 
shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind their 
backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at which I 
have been present ; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, I'om- 
come-tickle-me, and other choice old games : and where we some- 
times had a good old English country dance, to the tune of Sir Roger 
de Coverly. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, 
and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have 'lone any 
man's heart good to see the merriment that took place h-^re, as we 
banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made the woods 
ring with hurts of laughter at the songs of little WagSiaff and the 
merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young folkg would play 
at blindman's-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was aoiusing to see 
them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine roT^ping girl now 
and then squeak from among the bushes. The eider folks would 
gather round the cheesemonger and the apothe^ry, to hear them 
talk politics ; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their 
pockets, to pass away time in the country. "iTiey wo aid now and 
then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes 
were always adjusted by reference to a worihy old umbrella-maker 
in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, 
managed, somehow or other, to decide in favor of both parties. 



170 SKETGE-BOOK. 

All empires, however, says some pliilosoplier or historian, are 
doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep 
in, factions arise, and families now and then spring up whose 
ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus 
in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously 
disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total 
Bubversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving 
and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of 
Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when old Lamb had made 
money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass plate on 
his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the 
honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her 
grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich 
feathers on her head. The family never got over it ; they were im- 
mediately smitten wiA a passion for high life ; set up a one-horse 
carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, and have 
been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. 
They could no longer be induced to play at Pope- Joan or blindman's- 
buff ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had 
ever heard of in Little Britain ; and they took to reading novels, talk- 
ing bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, 
who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, 
characters hitherto unknown in these parts ; and he confounded the 
worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, and the 
Edinbro' Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they 
neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had a great 
deal of genteel company from Theobald's road Red-lion square, and 
other parts toward the west. There were several beaux of their 
brother's acquaintance from Gray's- Inn lane and Hatton Garden ; and 
not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This 
was net to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an up- 
roar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, 
and the rattling and jingling of hackney-coaches. The gossips of the 
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at every 
window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by ; and there was a 
knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just 
opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one 
that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole neigh- 
borhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. 
It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her 
quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to 
some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly 
way ; " and it is eguallj true that her invitations were always ao 



LITTLE BBITAm. Ill 

eepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrarj. Nay, tlie good 
ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, 
who would condescend to thrum an Irish melody for them on the 
piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's 
anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family of Portsokenward, and the 
Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ; but then 
they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their 
confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every- 
thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to 
pieces. 

The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable 
was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spi1>e of the 
meekness of his name, was a rough hearty old fellow, with the voice 
of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, and a broad face 
mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always 
spoke of him as the "old gentleman," addressed him as " papa," in 
tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him into a dressing- 
gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what, they 
might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature 
would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar 
good-humor, that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensi- 
tive daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton 
coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sau- 
sage with his tea." 

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family. 
He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him ; 
no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then throwing out a 
fling at " some people," and a hint at " quality binding." This both 
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher ; and his wife and daugh- 
ters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex taking advan- 
tage of the circumstances, at length prevailed upon him to give up 
his afternoon pipe and tankard at WagstaS's ; to sit after dinner by 
himself, and take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to nod 
in his chair, in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in 
French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laughing so 
loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. 
They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced 
a French dancing-master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the wor- 
thy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did ,">& persecute the 
poor Gaul that he was fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps, 
and decamp with such precipitation that he absolutely f or£ ot to pay 
for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery in* 
dignation on the part of the community was merely the overflowing 
of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror of imio* 



in 8KETGH-B00K. 

vation, and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous 
in expressing for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss 
Lambs. . But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection had 
taken hold, and that my neighbors, after condemning, were begin- 
ning to'follow their example. I overheard my landlady importuning 
her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at French and 
music, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille ; I even 
saw, in^the course of a few Sundays, no less than five French bon- 
nets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little 
Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away ; 
that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood ; might die, or 
might run away with attorney's apprentices ; and that quiet and sim- 
plicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily a 
rival power arose. An opulent oil-man died, and left a widow with 
a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. The young 
ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a prudent 
father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their ambition, 
being now no longer restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they 
openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advan- 
tage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little 
bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high 
acquaintances, but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When 
the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss 
Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs 
gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand ; and 
though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had 
double the number, and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable 
factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of 
Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded ; there is 
no such thing as getting up an honest country-dance ; and on my 
attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last Christmas, I 
was indignantly repulsed ; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it 
"shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the 
most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs standing up for 
the dignity of Cross- Keys' square, and the Trotters for the vicinity 
of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissensions, 
like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be the re- 
sult would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent at prog- 
nostics, to determine ; though I apprehend that it will terminate in 
the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 

The immediate effects are extremely unvjleasant to me. Being a 
single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good-for-notliing 



BTitA TFOBD-ON-A VON. ItS 

personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by profession 
in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with both parties, and 
have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbitings. As I 
am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, I have com- 
mitted myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing their op- 
ponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which 
is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehensions — if 
the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and compare 
notes, I am ruined ! 

** I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am act- 
ually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old 
English manners are still kept up ; where French is neither eaten, 
drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no fashionable fam- 
ilies of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, 
hasten away before I have an old house about my ears — bid a long 
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode — and leave the rival 
factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the distracted empire 
of Little Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream ; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his ^een bed, 

For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. 

Gakbick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he 
can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like 
independence and territorial consequence when, after a weary day's 
travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and 
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it 
may ; let kingdoms rise and fall, so long as he has the wherewithal 
to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he 
surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his scepter, and the 
little parlor of some twelve feet square his undisputed empire. It is 
a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of 
life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day ; and 
he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows 
the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoy- 
ment. * ' Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn 1 " thought I, as I 
gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a compla- 
cent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse, at Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind 



11-4 SKETCH-BOOK. 

as the clock struck midniglit from the tower of the church in which 
he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty 
chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating 
air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint tht-.t it 
was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an end ; 
so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid being 
deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm, as a 
pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamed all night of Shake- 
speare, and Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we 
sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the middle of 
March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way ; the 
north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from 
the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every 
bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty, 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit 
was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, according 
to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft of wool combing. 
It is a small mean looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling- 
place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring in 
by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are covered with 
names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all nations, 
ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; and present a 
simple but strildng instance of the spontaneous and universal homage 
of mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty red face, 
lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial 
locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She 
was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like 
all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock 
of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer, on his 
poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves 
that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also 
with which he played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which 
Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There 
was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which seems 
to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as the wood of 
the true cross, of which there is enough extant to build a ship of 
the line. 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare's 
chair. It stands in the chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber, 
just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time 
have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit, with all the 
longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the crones and 
gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and legendary 
anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is 



stuatford-on-avon. 175 

the custom of every one who visits the house to sit : whether this be 
done with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard, I 
am at a loss to say ; I merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess 
privately assured me that, though built of solid oak, such was the 
fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at 
least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history 
of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile 
nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto or the flying chair of the Arabian 
enchanter ; for though sold some few years since to a northern prin- 
cess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am very willing to 
be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I am 
therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of 
goblins and great men ; and would advise all travelers who travel for 
their gratification to do the same. What is it to us whether these 
stories be true or false so long as we can persuade ourselves into the 
belief of them and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is 
nothing like resolute good-humored credulity in these matters ; and 
on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims 
of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for 
my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition, which 
set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birth-place of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his 
grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a large 
and venerable pile, moldering with age, but richly ornamented. It 
Stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and sepa- 
rated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situa- 
tion is quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring at the foot of the 
churchyard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop their 
branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of lines, the boughs of 
which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched 
way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. 
The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones, some of 
them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which 
has likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have 
built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls, and 
keep up a continual flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and 
cawing about its lofty gray spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the grayheaded sexton, 
and accompanied him home to get the key of the church. He had 
lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still 
to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that 
he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. Hia 
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its border- 
ing meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and com- 



176 ' SKETCH-BOOK 

fort vvhicli pervade tlie humblest dwellings iii this country. A 
low white-waslied room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served 
for parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthern dishes 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and 
polished, lay the family Bible and prayer book, and the drawer con- 
tained the family library, composed of about half a score of well- 
thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of cot- 
tage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright 
warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-han- 
dled Sunday cane on the otlier. The fireplace, as usual, was wide 
and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In one 
corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed 
girl, and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony, whom 
he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who I found had been 
bis companion from childhood. They had played together in infancy ; 
they had worked together in manhood ; they were now tottering about 
and gossiping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will 
probably be buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not 
often that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and 
tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes" of 
life that they are to be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard from 
these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. The 
long interval during which Shakespeare's writings- lay in comparative 
neglect has spread its shadow over history ; and it is his good or evil 
lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers but a scanty 
handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters, 
on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they re- 
membered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who superintended 
the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was "a short 
punch man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also 
in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a mor- 
sel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary 
conception. 

I was grieved to hear these cwo wort/;7 wights speak very dubiously 
of the eloquent dame who shows the Snakespeare house. John Ange 
shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and inexhaustible col- 
lection of relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry tree ; and 
the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakesi3eare having been 
born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her man- 
sion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb ; the latter having 
comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at 
the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels, even at the fountain-head. 

We approacJ"5d the church through +he p venue of limes, and entered 



iSTMA TFORD-ON-A VOIT. 177 

by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented with carved doors of massive 
oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and embellish- 
ments superior to those of most country churches. There are several 
ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of which hang 
funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 
The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place is solemn and 
sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the 
Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low 

Eerpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is 
uried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been writ- 
ten by himself, and which have in them something extremely awful, ' 
If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet. 
of the grave which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful 
minds : 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 

To dig the dust inclosed tiere. 

Blessed be he that spares these stones, 

And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakespeare, 
put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The 
aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead ; and I 
thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his con- 
temporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription men- 
tions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years ; an untimely 
death for the world : for what fruit might not have been expected 
from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the 
stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular 
and royal favor ! 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. 
It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his 
native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem- 
plated. A few years since also, as some laborers were digging to 
make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant 
space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached 
into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with the re- 
mains so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any of the idle 
or the curious, or any collector of relics should be tempted to commit 
depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, 
until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told 
me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see neither 
coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to 
have seen the dust of Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, Mrs. 
Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full- 
length eJOSgy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory ; oa 



178 8KETGR-B00K. 

whom lie is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other 
monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on anything that 
is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place — the 
whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer 
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence ; 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable 
evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement, 
there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, tliat, in very 
truth, the remains of Shakespeare were moldering beneath my feet. 
It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the 
place ; and as I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from 
Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but I 
had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and 
to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with some 
of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful offense of deer- 
stealing. In this hairbrained exploit we are told that he was taken 
prisoner, and carried to the keeper's lodge, where he remained all 
night in doleful captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir 
Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; 
for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade, 
which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.* 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so incensed 
him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of 
the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakespeare did 
not wait to brave the united puissance of a Knight of the Shire and 
a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of 
the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to London ; became 
a hanger-on to the theaters ; then an actor ; and finally wrote for the 
stage ; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, 
Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber and the world gained an 
immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of 
the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself 
in his writings ; but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir 
Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the satire 
Is slyly fixed upon him by the Justice's armorial bearings, which, like 
those o f the Knight, had white lucesf in the quartering^ 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie as Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 
We all«w by his ears with but asses to mate. 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy, whatever befall it. 
tThe lace is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Charl«eol. 



8TBATF0BD-0N-AV0K. 179 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and 
explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look upon it 
as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn 
of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness 
and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected genius. 
The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the vaga- 
bond. When left to itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in 
everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in 
the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out 
a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind for- 
tunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly transcended 
all civil as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an un- 
broken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be found 
in the company of all kinds of odd and anomalous characters ; that 
he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one of those 
unlucky urchins at mention of whom old men shake their heads and 
predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To him the 
poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a 
Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed, imagina- 
tion, as something delightfully adventurous.* 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still re- 
main in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly inter- 
esting from being connected with this whimsical but eventful cir- 
cumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at 



* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days 
maybe found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland 
and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." ' 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford 
famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the 
appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the 
neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat- 
ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; and in the number of 
the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb that " they who drink 
beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of 
Stratford was staggered at the first onset and sounded a retreat while they had yet 
legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs 
falling them, they were forced to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed tn« 
night. It is still standing and goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the bard and proposed returning to Bed- 
ford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drunk with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 
Drudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bedford. 

•• The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets thus givea 
them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tS&or ; 
Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough ; and Grafton is famous for tlio 
poverty of its soil." 



im SKETCff-BOOJt. 

little more than tliree miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to 
pay it a pedestrian visit, that T might stroll leisurely through some 
of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his ear. 
liest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery is 
always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the 
weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. 
It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awakening of 
spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the 
moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the 
tender blade ; and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and 
bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and flower. 
The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was 
to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before 
the cottages. The bleating of the new- dropped lambs was faintly 
heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched 
eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his 
late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, springing up from the 
reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy 
cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little 
songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still filled 
with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's exquisite little song 

in Cymbeline : 

Hark I hark ! the lark at heav'n's gate sings, 

And Phogbus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking mary-bnd s begin . 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin, 

My lady sweet, arise I 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : everything 
is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I 
saw I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had acquired 
his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners and heard those 
legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven like 
witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a 
popular amusement in winter evenings " to sit round the fire and tell 
merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, 
dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, gobl ins, and friars."* 

* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside 
fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, 
elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke,_ tritons, 
centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, 
Robin-good-fellow, the sporne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier 
drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and P'^cJi other 
bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes." 



STB A TFOBD-ON-A VOUfT. 181 

My route for a part of tlie way lay in sight of the Avon, which 
made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through 
a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among willows, 
which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappearing among groves or 
beneath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into full view 
and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This 
beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A 
distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, while 
all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the 
silver links of the Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles I turned off into a 
foot-path which led along the borders of fields and under hedge-row£ 
to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, however, for th© 
benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way through 
the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates in which every one 
has a kind of property — at least as far as the foot-path is concerned. 
It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and what is 
more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and 
pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the 
pure air as freely and lolls as luxuriously under the shade as the lord 
of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees 
his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it 
and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose 
vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded sol- 
emnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their heredi- 
tary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening 
vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; and a 
vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues that has the 
effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended similar- 
ity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration and 
of having had their origin in a period of time with which we asso- 
ciate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the long-settled 
dignity and proudly concentrated independence of an ancient family; 
and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when 
speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that "money 
could do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there was 
no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery and 
about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, 
which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shake- 
speare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble forest med- 
itations of Jacques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in "Aa 
you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes that the 
mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes in- 



180 SKBTCE-BOOK. 

tensely sensible of tlie beauty and majesty of nature. Tlie imagina- 
tion kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images 
and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost 
incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such mood, and 
perhaps under one of those very trees before me which threw their 
broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the 
Avon, that the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little 
song which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary. 

Under tke green- wood tree, 

Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry tliroat 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither, 

Here shall he see 

No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of 
brick with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Eliza- 
beth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The 
exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be consid- 
ered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman 
of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a kind of 
court-yard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, shrubs, 
and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbi- 
can ; being a kind of outpost and flanked by towers ; though evi- 
dently for mere ornament instead of defense ; The front of the house 
is completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted casements, a great 
bow-window of heavy stonework, and a portal with armorial bear- 
ings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an 
octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at 
the foot of a gently sloping bank which sweeps down from the rear 
of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon 
its borders, and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As 
I contemplated the venerable old mansion I called to mind Falstaff's 
encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected indifference 
and real vanity of the latter : 

Falstaff. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 

Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John:— marry, 
jfood air. 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the 
days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. 
The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked ; 
there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the mosS' 



STMA TFOBD-ON-A VON. 183 

troopers of Stratford, The only sign of domestic life that I met with 
was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace toward 
the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to men- 
tion the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against 
the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly 
abhorrence of poachers and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 
power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the bard. 

After prowling about for some time I at length found my way to a 
lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the mansion. I 
was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the 
civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the interior 
of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations and been 
adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old 
oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient 
manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had 
in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at 
one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and 
trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country 
gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide 
hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood fire, 
formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the opposite side 
of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- window, with stone shafts, which 
looks out upon the court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass 
the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations, some 
being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the quarterings 
the three white luces by which the character of Sir Thomas was first 
identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in 
a rage with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, 
and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offenses of 
himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose 
the family pride and vindictive threads of the puissant Shallow to be 
ft caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas, 

Shallow. Sir Hugli, persuade me not ; I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it ; 
if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq, 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratalotnim too, and a gentleman born, master parson ; who 
■writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do, and have done any time these three hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and all his ancestors 
that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. 

Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear of GrOt in a 
riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a 
riot ; take your vizaments in that. 

Shailow. Ha I o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it I 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by &ii Pet@; 



184 SKETCH-BOOK. 

Lely, of one of tlie Lucy family, a great beauty of tlie time of Charles 
tlie Second ; the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to 
the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted 
to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, 
among which was that part of the park where Shakespeare and his 
comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have not been en- 
tirely regained by the family, even at the present day. It is but jus- 
tice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine 
hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great painting 
over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his - 
family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shakespeare's life- 
time. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knighfc himself, ' 
but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son ; the only likeness 
extant of the former being an efl3.gy upon his tomb in the church of 
the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea 
of the costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in 
ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked 
yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored beard.'' 
His lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff and 
long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and 
formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground, and one of 
the children holds a bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunt- 
ing, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished 
gentleman in those days.* 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had dis- 
appeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of 
carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of former days was wont to 
swaj the scepter of empire over his rural domains ; and in which it 
might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful 
state, when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him. As I 
like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself 
with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky 
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I 
fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard 
of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving men with their badges ; 
while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and cliopf alien, in 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, " His 
housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and strving-men atten- 
dant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his dis- 
course. J* hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambi- 
tious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." 
And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of 
hounds that run buck, fos,hare, otter, and bads^er ; and had hawks of all kinds both 
long and short winged. Hia great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, 
and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad h*Vtli, parea 
\ntli brick, lay eome of the choicest terriers, hounds, and spaniels." 



8TRA TFOBD-ON'-A VON", 185 

the custody of ^me-keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious 
housemaids peeping from the half -opened doors ; while from the gal- 
lery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully forward, eye- 
ing the youthful prisoner with that pity, ' ' that dwells in woman- 
hood." — Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling 
before the brief authority of a country 'Squire, and the sport of rus- 
tic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes ; the theme of all 
tongues and ages ; the dictator to the human mind ; and was to con- 
fer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt 
inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the Justice treated Sir 
John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippen of his own 
graffing, with a dish of carraways ; " but I had already spent so much 
of the day in my rambling, that I was obliged to give up any farther 
investigations. When about to take my leave, I was gratified by the 
civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some 
refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality which I grieve to 
say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no 
doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys in- 
herits from his ancestors ; for Shakespeare, even in his caricature, 
makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his 
pressing instances to Falstaff. 

By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not awayto-ni^ht * * * *, I will not excuse 
you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there Is no excuse 
shall serve ; you shall not be excused * * * *, Some pigeons, Davy ; a couple of 
short-legged hens ; a ioiut of mutton ; and any pretty little tiay kickshaws, tell 
" William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had be- 
come so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters 
connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. 
Everything brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the 
door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble 
voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : 

'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry Shrove-tlde I 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift 
of the poet : to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the 
very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm and charac- 
ter not their own, and to turn this " working-day world" into a perfect 
fairyland. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell operates, not 
upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the heart. Under the 
wizard influence of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a com- 
plete delusion, I had surveyed the landscapes through the prism of 



186 SKETCH-BOOK. 

poetry, whicli tinged every object with fhe hues of the rainbow, I 
had been surrounded with fancied beings ; with mere airy nothings, 
conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
reality. I had heard Jacques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had be- 
held the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through the 
woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in spirit with 
fat Jack FalstafE and his comtemporaries, from the August Justice 
Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne 
Page. Ten thousand honors and blessings on the bard who has thus 
gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions, who has spread 
exquisite and unbought pleasures in my checkered path, and be- 
guiled my spirit in many a lonely hour with all the cordial and cheer- 
ful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to 
contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and 
could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his ashes un- 
disturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor could his 
name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled multi- 
tude ? What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 
compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful 
loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may 
be but the offspring of an overwrought sensibility ; but human nature 
is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tenderest affec- 
tions are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought 
renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly 
favor will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no ap- 
plause so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native 
place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor, 
among his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart 
and failing head begin to warn him that the evening of life is draw- 
ing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, to 
sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when, 
wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a 
heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, be- 
fore many years, he should return to it covered with renown ; that 
his name should become the boast and glory of his native place ; that 
his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure ; 
and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed in tearful 
contemplation, should one day become the beacon towering amid 
the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation 
to h^ tomb 1 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CBARACTEM. 18t 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 

I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hnngry, and he gave 
him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, ana he clothed htm not.— Speech of 
an Indian Chief. 

There is sometliing in tlie character and habits of the North 
American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over which 
he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic 
rivers, and trackless plains, that is to my mind wonderfully striking 
and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the 
desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple 
with diificulties and to support privations. There seems but little 
soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we 
would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism 
and habitual taciturnity which look up his character from casual 
observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized 
life by more of those sympathies and affections than are usually 
ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the 
early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white man. 
They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions by 
mercenary and frequently wanton warfare, and their characters have 
been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist has 
often treated them like beasts of the forest, and the author has en- 
deavored to justify him in his outrages. The former found it easier 
to exterminate than to civilize — the latter to vilify than to discriminate. 
The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanc- 
tion the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest 
were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, but be- 
cause they were ignorant. 

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated or 
respected by the white man. In peace, he has too often been the 
dupe of artful traffic ; in war, h^e has been regarded as a ferocious' 
animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and 
convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety 
is endangered," and he is sheltered by impunity ; and little mercy is 
to be expected from him when he feels the sting of the reptile, and 
is conscious of the power to destroy. 

The same prejudices which were indulged thus early exist in common 
circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, 
with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and record the real 
characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; the American govern- 
ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly 



188 SKETCH-BOOS. 

and forbearing spirit toward tliem, and to protect them from fraud and 
injustice.* The current opinion of the Indian character, however, is 
too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest the 
frontiers and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too com- 
monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the 
vices of society, without being benefited by its civilization. That 
proud independence which formed the main pillar of savage virtue 
has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. 
Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and 
their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge 
and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon 
them like one of those v/ithering airs that will sometimes breathe 
desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their 
strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their 
original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them a 
thousand superfluous wants, while it has diminished their means of 
mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, who 
fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, and 
seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. 
Thus do we too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be mere 
wrecks and remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in 
the vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vaga- 
bond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of 
the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes tlieir spirits aud blights 
every free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, 
indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like 
vagrants about the settlements among spacious dwellings, replete 
with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the com- 
parative wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads its 
ample board before their eyes ; but they are excluded from the ban- 
quet. Plenty revels over the fields ; tsut they are starving in the 
midst of its abundance : the whole wilderness has blossomed into a 
garden ; but they feel as reptiles that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords of 
the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification 
within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the 
same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same aliments, 
arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was 
open to the homeless stranger ; no smoke curled among the trees, 
but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his 

* The American govemmeBt has been indefatigable in its exertions to meliorate 
the situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization 
and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white 
traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted ; nor is any per- 
son allowed!^to receive lands from them as a present vnthout the express eanction of 
goyenuneat. These precautious are strictly enforced. 



TRAITS OF mDIAJt CEABACTEB. 189 

repast. " For," says an old historian of New England, *' tlieir life is 
so void of care, and they are so loving also that they make use of 
those things they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compas- 
sionate, that rather than one should starve through want, they would 
starve all ; thus do they pass their time merrily, not regarding our 
pomp, but are better content with their own, which some men esteem 
so meanly of." Such were the Indians, while in the pride and 
energy of their primitive natures ; they resemble those wild plants 
which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the 
hand of cultivation, and perish beneath the influence of the sun. 

In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone to 
indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, instead of 
the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not sufficiently 
considered the peculiar circumstances in which the Indians have been 
placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have been edu- 
cated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. His 
whole conduct is regulated according to some general maxims early 
implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to be 
sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them all ; — the white man 
abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, but how many 
does he violate ! 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their disre- 
gard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with which, in 
time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. The in- 
tercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt to 
be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat 
them with that confidence and frankness which are indispensable to 
real friendship ; nor /is sufficient caution observed not to offend 
against those feelings of pride or superstition, which often prompt 
the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. 
The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are 
not diffused over so wide a surface as those of th^ white man ; but 
they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, 
his superstitions, are all directed toward fewer objects ; but the 
wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and furnish mo- 
tives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a 
community is also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal 
family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury 
of the whole ; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost instantane- 
ously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the discussion and 
arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and 
sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the 
minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and 
they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation by the visions 
of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a 



190 SKETCH-BOOK. 

motive peculiar to the Indian cliaracter, is extant in an old record oi 
the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Plymouth 
had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had 
plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with 
which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the 
reverence with which they entertain for the sepulchers of their kin- 
dred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of 
their ancestors, when by chance they have been traveling in the 
vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, 
guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country 
for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones 
of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there have passed hours 
in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, 
the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been violated, gathered his 
men together, and addressed them in the following beautifully sim- 
ple and pathetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence 
and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage. 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this 
globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to 
take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a 
vision, at which my spirit was much troubled : and trembling at 
that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, my son, whom I 
liave cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take 
revenge of those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a 
despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable customs ? 
See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, defaced 
by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid 
against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. 
If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' 
This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to 
speak, began to get some strength, and recollected my spirits that 
were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show 
how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to 
caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous motives, 
which our inattention to Indian character and customs prevents our 
properly appreciating. 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their bar- 
barity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and 
partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, 
were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss of seve- 
ral warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case when 
they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance 
occurs in Indian history where a tribe that had long been formida- 
ble to its neighbors has been broken up and driven away by th« 



TBAIT8 OF INDIAN CffABACTJSB. 191 

capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was a 
strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so 
much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. 
The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among bar- 
barous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the 
manes of their friends who had fallen in battle, were soothed by the 
blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thug 
sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, 
and are treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and 
friends ; nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that 
when the alternative is offered them, they will often prefer to remain 
with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and th« 
friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians toward their prisoners has been height- 
ened since tlie colonization of the whites. What was formerly a 
compliance with policy and superstition has been exasperated into a 
gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that the 
white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause of 
their degradation, and the gradual destroj^ers of their race. They go 
forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they 
have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and de- 
spair by the wide-spreading desolation and the overwhelming ruin 
of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set them an 
example of violence by burning their villages and laying waste their 
slender means of subsistence ; and yet they wonder that savages do 
not show moderation and magnanimity toward those who have left 
them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

We stigmatize the Indians also as cowardly and treacherous be- 
cause they use stratagem in warfare in preference to open force ; but 
in this they are fully justified by their rude code of honor. They 
are early taught that statagem is praiseworthy : the bravest warrior 
thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of 
his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he 
has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is 
naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, owing to his phys- 
ical weakness in comparison with other animals. TLey are endowed 
with natural weapons of defense : with horns, with tusks, with 
hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. 
In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to 
stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his 
fellow man, he at first continues the same subtile mode of warfare. 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy, 
with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected 
by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces us to despise 
the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain dan- 
ger, is the offspring of isociety, and produced by education. It is 



193 SKETCH-BOOK 

honorable, because it is in fact the triumpb of lofty sentiment over 
an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after 
personal ease and security which society has condemned as ignoble. 
It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of 
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists 
but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by 
various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chiv- 
alrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it 
the splendors of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the 
sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and 
rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been 
its reward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and 
opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's 
gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has 
risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and, 
arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," this 
turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet 
but invaluable virtues which silently ennoble the human character 
and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and 
pain, the life of the Indian "is a continual exhibition of it. He lives 
in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are 
congenial to his nature ; or rather seem necessary to arouse his facul- 
ties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by hostile 
tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he is 
always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. 
As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of 
ocean, as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its 
way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian 
holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the bound- 
less bosom of the wilderness. ' His expeditions may vie in distance 
and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee or the crusade of the 
knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of 
lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy 
lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings ; in 
his light canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and 
darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of the 
rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and 
peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase ; 
he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the buf- 
falo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his 
lofty contempt of death, aixd the fortitude with which he sustains its 
cruelest affliction. Indeed, we here behold him rising superior to 
the white man, in consequence of his peculiar education. The latter 
rushM to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calml/ 



TBAIT8 OF mniAJSr CHARACTER, 193 

contemplates its approacli, and triumphantly endures it, amid tli<^ 
varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of 
fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors and provok- 
ing their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on 
his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart, 
and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies with- 
out a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have 
overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright 
gleams occasionally break through, which throw a degree of melan- 
choly luster on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be met 
with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, thongli 
recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for 
themselves, and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy 
when prejudice shall have passed away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, 
there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of 
the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail 
of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of 
an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in 
flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempt- 
ing to escape, "all being dispatched and ended in the course of an 
hour." After a series of similar transactions, " our soldiers," as the 
historian piously observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to 
make a final destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted 
from their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a 
scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, 
with their wives and children, took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by despair, with 
hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, and 
spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they 
refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and pre- 
ferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal retreat,' 
so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy 
" plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were 
killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that pre- 
ceded the dawn of day, some few broke through the besiegers 
and escaped into the woods : "the rest were left to the conquerors, 
of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who 
would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still and be? 
shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the 
day broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the 
soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of 
them sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, 

IRTINa I—? 



194 SKETCH-BOOK. 

laden witli ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time ; putting the muzzles 
of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, 
besides those that were found dead, many more were killed and 
sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend or 
foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale without admiring the 
stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that 
seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes and to raise 
them above the instinctive feelings of human nature ? When the 
Gauls laid waste the city of Rome they found the senators clothed in 
their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; 
in this manner they suffered death without resistance or even suppli- 
cation. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnan- 
imous — in the hapless Indians it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. 
How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How differ- 
ent is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in state from virtue 
naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in the Vv^ilderness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern 
tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered them 
have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the 
thickly- settled states of New England, excepting here and there the 
Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must sooner or 
later be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and 
have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the 
wars of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that 
their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger 
•bout the shores of Huron and Superior and the tributary streams 
of the Mississippi will share the fate of those tribes that once spread 
over Massachusetts and Connecticut and lorded it along the proud 
banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on 
the borders of the Susquehanna ; and of those various nations that 
flourished about the Patowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peopled 
the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like 
a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in 
forgetfulness ; and " the places that now know them will know them 
no more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them 
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to 
people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs 
and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the 
dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness : should he tell how 
they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled ; driven from their native 
abodes and the sepulchers of their fathers ; hunted like wild beasts 
■about the earth ; and sent down with violence and butchery to the 
grave — posterity will either turn with horror and incredulity from 
the tale, or blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their fore- 
fathers. •* We are driven back/' said an old warrior, " until we can 



PEILIP OF POKANOKET. 195 

retreat no farther — our "hatcliets are broken, our bows are snapped, 
our fires are nearly extinguished — a little longer and the white man 
will cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to exist." 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 

As monumental bronze unchanged Ms look ; 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook : 
Trained, from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook ; 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

tn Js ii \e regretted that those early writers who treated of the 
disiccvery ertd i^ett^'ement of America have not given us more particu- 
lar and candid accoants of the remarkable characters that flourished 
in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full 
of peculiarity and interest ; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of 
human nature and shjw what man is in a comparatively primitive 
state and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the 
charm of discovery in lio^iiting upon these wild and unexplored tracts 
of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of 
moral sentiment ; and perceiving those generous and romantic quali- 
ties which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in 
spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness and indeed almost the exist- 
ence of man depends so much upoix the opinion of his fellow men, he 
is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of 
native character are refined away cy softened down by the leveling 
influence of what is termed good breeding ; and he practices so many 
petty deceptions and affects so many generous sentiments for the 
purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from 
his artificial character. The Indian, on tho contrary, free from the 
restraints and refinements of polished life, and in a great degree a 
solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination 
or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus th.3 attributes of his na- 
ture, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. Society 
is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble 
eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of 
a velvet surface ; he, however, who would study nature in its wild- 
ness and variety must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 



106 SKETCH-BOOK. 

These reflections arose on casually looking througli a volume of 
early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, 
the outrages of the Indians and their wars with the settlers of New 
England. It is painful to perceive, even from these partial narra- 
tives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of 
the aborigines ; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by 
the lust of conquest ; how merciless and exterminating was their 
warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea how many intellectual 
beings were hunted from the earth — how many brave and noble 
hearts, of Nature's sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled 
in the dust ! 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an Indian warrior, 
whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connec- 
ticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary 
Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narrhagansets, the 
Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the first 
settlement of New England : a band of native untaught heroes, who 
made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable, 
fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a 
hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poe- 
try and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left 
scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like 
gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 

When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their 
descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World from 
the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last 
degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that number 
rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships ; surrounded 
by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of 
an almost Arctic winter and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting cli- 
mate, their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing 
preserved them from sinking into despondency but the strong excite- 
ment of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were 
visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a power- 
ful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of 
taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers and expel- 
ling tiiem from his territories into which they had intruded, he seemed 
at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended 
toward them the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early in the 
spring to their settlement of New Plymouth attended by a mere 
handful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and 
amity ; sold tliem a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for 
them the good- will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of 

♦ While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed that a 
celebrated Englislj poet has nearly finished a heroic poem on the story of Philip of 
JPokanoket. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 191 

Indian perfidy, it is certain tliat tlie integrity and good faith of Mas- 
sasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnan- 
imous friend of the wliite men ; suffering them to extend their pos- 
sessions and to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no 
jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before 
his death he came once more to New Plymouth with his son Alex- 
ander for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace and of se- 
curing it to his posterity. 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his fore- 
fathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and stipulated 
that no farther attempt should be made to draw off his people from 
their ancient faith ; bat finding the English obstinately opposed to 
any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. Almost the 
last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip 
(as they had been named by the English) to the residence of a prin- 
cipal settler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence, and 
entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between 
the white men and himself might be continued afterward with his 
children. The good old Sachem died in peace and was happily gath- 
ered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children 
remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and 
impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights 
and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the 
strangers excited his indignation : and he beheld with uneasiness 
their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was doomed 
soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narr- 
hagansets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. 
It is impossible to say whether this accusation was warranted by 
facts or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, 
by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers that they had 
!>y this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their 
power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the 
natives. They dispatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander 
and to bring him before their court. He was traced to his woodland 
haunts and surprised at a hunting house where he was reposing with 
a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The 
suddenness of his arrest and the outrage offered to his sovereign dig- 
nity so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage as to 
throw him into a raging fever ; he was permitted to return home on 
condition of sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance ; but 
the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home 
he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, as he 
was called by the settlers on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious 
temper. Thess, together with his well-kuown energy and enterprijse, 



19S 8KETCB-B00S. 

Lad i'endered him an object of great jealousy and appreliension, and 
lie was accused of having always cherished a secret and implacable 
hostility toward the whites. Such may very probably and very nat- 
urally have been the case. He considered them as originally but 
mere intruders into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, 
and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. He saw the 
whole race of his countrymen melting before them from the face of 
the earth ; their territories slipping from their hands and their tribes 
becoming feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the 
soil was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know 
the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods of colonization ? 
The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through their superior 
adroitness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of territory by 
easily-provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice 
inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be 
gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he 
judges ; and it was enough for Philip to know that before the intru- 
sion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and 
that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

Bat whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility and 
his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he sup- 
pressed them for the present ; renewed the contract with the settlers; 
and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it was 
called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of 
his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and 
indefinite, began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at length 
charged with attempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise 
at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their 
oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper 
credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There was 
a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence on the 
part of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle 
tale. Informers abounded where tale-bearing met with countenance 
and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed when its success 
was certain and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusa- 
tion of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had 
been quickened by a partial education which he had received among 
the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three 
times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. 
He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and 
counselor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, 
however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, 
he abandoned his service and went over to the whites, and, in ordel 



* l>fow Bristol, Bhode Island. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 109 

to gain their favor, charged his former benefactor with plotting against 
their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several 
of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved 
against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to re- 
tract ; they had previously determined that Philip was a dangerous 
neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust ; and had done 
enough to insure his hostility : according, therefore, to the usual 
mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become neces- 
sary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was 
shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the ven- 
geance of his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and 
counselor of Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 
mony of one very questionable witness, were ccndemned and executed 
as murderers. 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment of his 
friend outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. 
The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the 
gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the 
power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken-hearted 
brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a farther warning in 
the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narrhagan- 
sets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the 
colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and re- 
ceiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dispatched at their 
instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; 
persuaded all strangers that he could to join his cause; sent the 
women and children to the Narrhagansets for safety ; and wherever 
he appeared was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irrita- 
tion, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The In- 
dians having weapons in their hands grew mischievous, and committed 
various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings a warrior 
was fired upon and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open 
hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, 
and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times, we meet 
with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. Thq 
gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their situation, 
among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists 
to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the 
frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much 
given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and hii 
Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn 
ings which forerun great and pul:)lic calamities. The perfect arm o! 
an Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked 
upon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Hadley^ 



200 SKETCE-BOOK 

Northampton, and otter towns in their neighborhood, " was heard 
the report of a great piece of ordnance, with the shaking of the earth 
and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed, on a still sunshiny 
morning, by the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to 
whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seem- 
ing to pass away to the westward ; others fancied that they heard the 
galloping of horses over their heads ; and certain monstrous births 
which took place about the time filled the superstitious in some 
towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights 
and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena, to the northern 
lights which occur vividly in those latitudes, the meteors which ex- 
plode in the air, the casual rushing of a blast through the to]r 
branches of the forest, the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks, 
and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes, which will sometimes 
strike the ear so strangely amid the profound stillness of woodland 
solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, 
may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvelous, and listened 
to with that avidity with which, we devour whatever is fearful and 
mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, 
and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the 
day, are strongly characteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distin- 
guishes the warfare between civilized men and savages^ On the part 
of the whites it was conducted wi th superior skill and success, but 
with a wastefulness of the blood and a disregard of the natural rights 
of their antagonists ; on the part of the Indians it was waged with the 
desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect 
troni j)eace but humiliation, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman 
-)f the time, who dwells with horror and indignation on every hostile 
act of the Indians, however justifiable, while he mentions with applause 
the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a 
murderer and a traitor, without considering that he was a true-born 
prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects to avenge the 
wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and 
to deliver his native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 
, The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really 
been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and had it not been 
prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its conse- 
quences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail ; 
a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. 
Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; 
and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that have 
been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find him disj^lay- 

The Bey. Increase Mather^e History. 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 201 

ing a vigorous mind ; a fertility in expedients, a contempt of suffer- 
ing and hardship, and an unconquerable resolution that command our 
sympathy and applause. 

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw him- 
self into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted 
the settlements and were almost impervious to anything but a 
wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, 
like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 
thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least 
expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were 
now and then indications of these impending ravages that filled the 
minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a 
distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, 
where there was known to be no white man ; the cattle which had 
been wandering in the woods would sometimes return home wound- 
ed ; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of 
the forests, and suddenly disappearing, as the lightning will some- 
times be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is 
brewing up the tempest. 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the settlers, 
yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils ; and 
plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry 
until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the coun- 
try desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps or 
morasses, which extend in some parts of New England ; composed of 
loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, 
rank weeds, the shattered and moldering trunks of fallen trees, 
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and 
the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them almost im- 
practicable to the white man, though the Indian could thread their 
labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great 
swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his 
followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to ven- 
ture iato these dark and frightful recesses, where they might perish 
in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They there- 
fore invested the entrance of the neck, and began to build a fort, with 
the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors 
wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of 
night, leaving the women and children behind, and escaped away to 
the westward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Mas- 
sachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the colony of 
Connecticut^ 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The 
mystery in ■'.7l\ich he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He 
was an evil that A.alked in darkness ; whose coming none could fore- 
see, and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The 



203 SKETCH-BOOK. 

whole country abounded witli rumors and alarms. Philip seemed 
almost possessed of ubiquity ; for, in whatever part of the widely 
extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was 
said to belts leader. Many superstitious notions also were circulated 
concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be at- 
tended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and 
who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This indeed was 
frequently the case with Indian chiefs, either through their own 
credulity, or to act upon that of their followers, and the influence of 
the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully 
evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his for- 
tunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned 
by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his resources. 
In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchet, 
CMef Sachem of all the Narrhagansets. He was the son and heir of 
Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an 
honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately 
put to death at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He was 
the heir," says the old chronicler, '' of all his father's pride and inso- 
lence, as well as of his malice toward the English ; " he certainly 
was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger 
of his murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part in 
this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with 
open arms, and gave them the most generous countenance and sup- 
port. This at once drew upon him the h<^stility of the English ; and 
it was determined to strike a signal blow, that should involve both 
the Sachems in one common rain. A great force was therefore 
gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth and Connecticut, 
and was sent into the Narrhaganset country in the depth of winter, 
when the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be traversed with 
comparative facility, and would no longer afford dark and impenetra- 
ble fastnesses to the Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part 
of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and chil- 
dren of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he and Philip had like- 
wise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by 
the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind 
of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was con- 
structed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what 
is usually displayed in Indian fortifications, and indicative of the mar- 
tial genius of these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegade Indian, the English penetrated, through De- 
cember snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison by 
surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants were 
repulsed in their fijst attack, and sevexal of their bravest officers wer« 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 

Bhot down in tlie act of storming the fortress, sword in hand. The 
assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgment was effected. 
The Indians were driven from one post to another. They disputed 
their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most 
of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody 
battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, 
retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the sur- 
rounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole was 
soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women and the children, 
perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even the stoicism 
of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded with the yells of 
rage and despair uttered by the fugitive warriors as they beheld the 
destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their 
wives and offspring. " The burning of the wigwams,'' says a contem- 
porary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and 
the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting 
scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same 
writer cautiously adds, ''they were in much doubt then, and after- 
ward seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could 
be consistent with humanity and the benevolent principles of the 
Gospel."* 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particu-* 
lar mention ; the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances 
on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet 
faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, 
he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying 
Philip and his followers, and declared that "he would fight it out to 
the last man rather than become a servant to the English." His 
home being destroyed, his country harassed and laid waste by the 
incursions of the conquerors, he was obliged to wander away to the 
banks of the Connecticut, where he formed a rallying point to the 
whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of theE]nglish 
settlements. 

Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedition, with 
only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of 
Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for the sustenance of 
his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through 
the Pequod country, and were in the center of the Narrhaganset, 
resting a^ oome wigwams near Pautucket river, when an alarm was 
given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at 
the time, Canonchet dispatched two of them to the t»p of a neigh- 
boring hill to bring intelligence of the foe. 



MS. of tlxeRev. W. Rugglea. 



g04 8KETCB-B00E 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians 
rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, 
without stopping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent an- 
other scout, who did the same. He then sent two more, one of 
whom, harrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the 
whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice 
but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round the hill, but was 
perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the 
fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his 
heels, he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and 
belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, -and 
redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a 
stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so struck 
him with despair that, as he afterward confessed, * ' his heart and 
his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void 
of strength." 

T'o such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized by a Pequod 
Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, 
though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But on 
being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him ; 
and from that moment we find in the anecdotes given by his ene- 
mies nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like hero- 
ism. Being questioned by one of the English who first came up with 
him, and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud- 
hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful 
countenance, replied, " You are a child — you cannot understand mat- 
ters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him will I an- 
swer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition 
of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them 
with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the 
great body of his subjects ; saying that he knew none of them would 
comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith toward the 
whites, his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor 
the parings of a Wampanoag's nail, and liis threat that he would 
burn the English alive in their houses, he disdained to justify him- 
self, haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war as 
himself, ' ' and he desired to hear no more thereof. " 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause and 
his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous and the 
brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being toward whom war 
had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was 
condemned to die. The last words of his that are recorded are worthy 
the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon 
him, he observed, *' that he liked it well, for lie should die before his 

HP*--- 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 205 

heart was soft, or lie had spoken anything unwortliy of himself." 
His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at 
Stoningham by three j'oung sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat of the Narrhaganset fortress and the death of Canon- 
chet were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made an 
ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks 
to take arms ; but though possessed of the native talents of a states- 
man, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlight- 
ened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue 
the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain 
saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapialy thinning 
around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims 
to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they 
were harassed. His stores were all captured ; his chosen friends 
were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by 
his side ; his sister Avas carried into captivity ; and in one of his nar- 
row escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son 
to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, "being 
thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but aug- 
mented thereby ; being himself made acquainted with the sense and 
experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, 
slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and 
being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life should be 
taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began 
to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase 
dishonorable safety. Through treachery, a number of his faithful 
adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, 
a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the 
hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and 
attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighboring river ; either 
exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was 
found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased 
not at the grave ; even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the 
wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this out- 
cast female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins- 
man and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and das- 
tardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the body and set upon 
a pole, and was thus exposed, at Taunton, to the view of her captive 
subjects. They immediately recognized the features of their unfor- 
tunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that 
we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid and diabolical 
lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries and 
misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers 
seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said 



206 SKETCH-BOO]^. 

that "lie never rejoiced afterward, nor liad success in any of his de- 
signs." The spring of hope was broken — the ardor of enterprise was 
extinguished : he looked around, and all was danger and darkness ; 
there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance, 
With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his des 
perate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity ot 
Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of Lis fathers. Here he lurked 
about, like a specter, among the scenes of former power and pros- 
perity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. There needs no 
better picture of his destitute and piteous situation than that fur- 
nished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting 
the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he 
reviles. ** Philip," he says, " like a savage wild beast, having been 
hunted by the English forces through the woods above a hundred 
miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon 
Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a 
swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers 
of death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." 

Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves 
seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his 
blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness 
and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, l3ut not dismayed — 
crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more 
haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in 
draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and 
subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very 
idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to 
death one of hi§ followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The 
brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the 
retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were im- 
mediately dispatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glar- 
ing with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach 
they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his 
trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he 
rushed forth from his covert and made a headlong attempt at escape, 
but was shot through the heart by a renegade Indian of his own 
nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King Philip ; 
persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when dead. If, 
however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by 
his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty 
character, sufiicient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for 
his memory. We find that amid all the harassing cares and fero- 
cious passions of constant warfare he was alive to the softer feelings 
of connubial love and paternal tenderness and to the generous senti* 



~ -"^ - JOHN BULL. 207 

ment of friendship. Tlie captivity of his "beloved wife and only 
son " is mentioned with exultation, as causing him poignant misery : 
the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow 
on his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of his 
followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have deso- 
lated his heart and to have bereaved him of all farther comfort. He 
was a patriot, attaclied to his native soil — a prince true to his sub- 
jects, and indignant of their wrongs — a soldier, daring in battle, firm 
in adversity, patient of fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily 
suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud 
of heart and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred 
to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and fam- 
ished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty 
spirit to submission and live dependent and despised in the ease and 
luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achieve- 
ments that would have graced a civilized warrior and have rendered 
him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer 
and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark, 
foundering amid darkness and tempest — without a pitying eye to 
weep his fall or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL. 



An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 

Witb an old study fill'd full of learned old books, 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that m-aintained half a dozen old cooks. 
Like an old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more excel 
than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appella- 
tions or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically designated 
not merely individuals but nations ; and in their fondness for push- 
ing a joke they have not spared even themselves. One would think 
that in personifying itself, a nation would be *apt to picture some- 
thing grand, heroic, anc imposing ; but it is characteristic of the 
peculiar humor of the English, and .of their love for what is blunt, 
comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities 
in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered 



208 SKETCH-BOOK, 

hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus 
they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private 
foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have been so successful in 
their delineation that there is scarcely a being in actual existence 
more absolutely present to the public mind than that eccentric per- 
sonage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn 
of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation, and thus to give 
reality to what at first may have been painted in a great measure from 
the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are con- 
tinually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem 
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have formed 
of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is 
perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their 
boasted BuUism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this 
I have especially noticed among those truly home-bred and genuine 
sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow- 
bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt 
to utter impertinent trutiis, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, 
and always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an un. 
reasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull 
is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and 
he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste and an insen- 
sibility to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance — 
he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knicknacks. 
His very proneness to be gulled by strangers and to pay extravagantly 
for absurdities is excused under the plea of munificence — for John 
is always more generous than wise. 

Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue 
every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of being 
the honestest fellow in existence. 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the first 
instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they 
have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stranger who wishes to 
study English peculiarities may gather much valuable information 
from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the 
windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those 
fertile humorists that are continually throwing out new portraits 
and presenting different aspects from different points of view ; and, 
often as he has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to gi^g 
a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 

John Bull, to all appearances, is a plain downright r:i£.tter-of-fact 
fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There 
is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural 
feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit ; is jolly rather than 
gay ; n^elancholy rather than morose ; can easily be moved to a sad 



JOHN BULL. 209 

den tear, or surprised into a broad laugli ; but be loatbes sentiment, 
and has no turn for ligbt pleasantry. lie is a boon companion, if you 
allow him to have his humor and to talk about himself ; and he will 
. stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly 
he may be cudgeled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be somewhat 
too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely for 
himself and family, but for all the country round, and is most gene- 
rally disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continually volun.' 
teering his services to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it in 
great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without ask-.' 
ing his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of tlio, 
kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and 
then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons 
in his youth in the noble science of defense, and having accomplished 
himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a per- 
fect master at boxing and cudgel play, he has had a troublesome life 
of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most dis- 
tant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the 
head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has ex- 
tended his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole 
country that no event can take place without infringing some of his 
finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with 
these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some 
choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a 
whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz nor a breeze blow without 
startling his repose and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from 
his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at bottom, 
yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is 
one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning 
of an affray ; he always goes into a fight with alacrity, bat comes out 
of it grumbling even when victorious : and though no one fights with 
more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is 
over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with 
the mere shaking of hands that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket 
all that they have been quarreling about. It is not, therefore, fightino- 
that he ought so much to be on his guard against as making friendst 
It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good 
humor and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. 
He is like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm unin- 
jured, but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling out 
a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing-matches, 
Ijorse-rjices, cock-fights, aad carrj^ngahi^h head amon|f *' gentlemen 



210 SKETCH-BOOK. 

of fhe fancy " ; but immediately after one of these jfits of extravagance 
he will be taken with violent qualms of economy ; stop short at the 
most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of being ruined and brought 
upon the parish ; and in such moods will not pay the smallest trade* 
man's bill without violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punc- 
tual and discontented paymaster in the world ; drawing his coin out 
of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance ; paying to the utter- 
most farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider 
and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsicaj 
kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be ex- 
travagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef steak and pint of port 
one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a liogshead of ale, 
and treat all his neighbors on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive ; not so much 
from any great outward parade as from the great consumption of solid 
beef and pudding, the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes, 
and his singular disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a 
most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor 
his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not 
peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to per- 
fection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. 
His house servants are well paid alid pampered, and have little to do. 
His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state car- 
riage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will 
hardly bark at a house-breaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray with 
age, and of a most venerable though weather-beaten appearance. It 
has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of 
parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The center bears evident 
traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and 
old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that style it is full 
of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusty chambers ; and though 
these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are 
many places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have 
been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great altera- 
tions have taken place ; towers and battlements have been erected 
during wars and tumults ; wings built in time of peace ; and out- 
houses, lodges, and offices run up according to. the whim or con- 
venience of different generations, until it has become one of the most 
spacious, rambling" tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken 
up with a family chapel — a reverend pile, that must once have been 
exceedingly sumptuous, and indeed, in spite of having been altered 
and simplified at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious 
pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's 
ancestors ; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined 



JOHN BULL, 811 

ehairs, where sucli of liis family as are inclined to cliarcll services 
may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he is 
staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance 
that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and 
several of his neighbors with whom he has had quarrels are strong 
Papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, a 
pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous 
personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old 
gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, 
rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting 
the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to 
pay their rents punctually and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat 
heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of 
former times ; fitted up with rich though faded tapestry, unwieldy 
furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fire, 
places, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting 
halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which 
the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, 
however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time- 
worn, and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay, so that in 
high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the 
household. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old 'edifice thoroughly 
overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and 
the others strengthened with their materials ; but the old gentleman 
always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excel- 
lent house — -that it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by 
tempests — that it has stood for several hundred years, and therefore 
is not likely to tumble down now — that as to its being inconvenient, 
his family is accustomed to the inconveniences and would not be ccan- 
fortable without them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
struction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and 
being improved by the wisdom of every generation — that an old family 
like his requires a large house to dwell in ; new upstart families may 
live in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old English family 
should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point out any 
part of the building as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the 
strength or decoration of the rest and the harmony of the whole 
and swears that the parts are so built into each other that, if you 
pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole about your ears. 

The secret of the matter is that John has a great disposition to 
protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of 
an ancient and honorable family to be bounteous in its appointments 



2li SEETCH-BOO^ 

and to be eaten np by dependents ; and so, partly from pride and 
partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shel- 
ter and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 

The consequence is that, like many other venerable family estab- 
Tshments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers whom he cannot 
' urn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down, Ifis mansion is 
like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a 
whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use 
in housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef -eaters, 
gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder are 
seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its 
trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every 
©ffice and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off are 
sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A 
mattock cannot be struck against the most moldering tumble-down 
tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loophole, the gray pate of 
some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all 
his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down 
the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. 
This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that 
a man who Jias faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life is 
sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park also is turned into paddocks, where his 
broken down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the 
remainder of their existence — a worthy example of grateful recollec- 
tion, which, if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to 
their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out 
these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol 
their past services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the 
perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which they have car- 
ried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages 
and family encumbrances to a whimsical extent. His manor is in- 
fested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer them to be driven 
off, because they have infested the place time out of mind, and have 
been regular poachers upon every generation of the family. He will 
scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that 
surround the house, lest it should molest the rooks that have bred 
there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the dovecote ; but 
they are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed Swallows have 
nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins build in 
every frieze and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers and perch 
on every weathercock ; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every 
quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes undauntedly 
in broad daylight. In short, John has sucb, a reverence for eyerj< 



jOBN BtfLL, 21S 

^hing that has been long in the family that he will not hear even of 
abuses being reformed, because they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain the old 
gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money 
matters, aud'wishes to maintain his credit iu the neighborhood, they 
have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This 
too has been increased by the altercations and heartburnings which 
are contmually taking place in his family. His cliildren have been 
brought up to different callings, and are of different ways of think- 
ing ; and as they have always been allowed to speak their minds 
freely, thev do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in 
the present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of 
the race, and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up 
in all its state, whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more pru- 
dent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his ex- 
penses and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more mode- 
rate footing. He has indeed', at times, seemed inclined to listen to 
their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely de. 
feated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy 
rattle-pated fellow of rather low habits, who neglects his business to 
frequent ale-houses— is the orator of village clubs, and a complete 
oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he 
hear anv of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment than up he 
jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an 
overturn. When his tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. He 
mnts about the room, hectors the old man about his spendthrift prac- 
tices, ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn the 
old servants out of doors, give the broken-down horses to the 
hounds, send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in 
his place — nay, that the whole family mansion shall be leveled with 
the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He 
rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks 
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to 
the door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his 
purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these 
tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over 
which he preaches about his father's extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with 
the old 'cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irritable 
from repeated crossings that the mere mention of retrenchment or 
reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. 
As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, hav- 
ing grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of 
wordy warfare, which at times run so high that John is fain to call 
in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served abroad, but is at 
present living at home on half pay. This last is sure to «tand by th© 



S14 SKETCH-BOOK 

old gentleman, riglit or wrong ; likes nothing so mucli as a racketing, 
roistering life ; and is ready at a wink or nod to out saber, and floarisli 
it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself against paternal 
authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare 
food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to look wise 
and shake their heads whenever his affairs are mentioned. They 
all " hope that matters are not so bad with him as represented ; but 
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things 
must be badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over 
head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money-lenders. He 
is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they fear he has lived 
too fast ; indeed, they never knew any good come of this fondness for 
hunting, racing, reveling, and prize-fight. In short, Mr. Bull's 
estate is a very fine one, and has been in the family a long while ; but 
for all that, they have known many finer estates come to the hammer." 

What is worst of all is the effect which these pecuniary embar- 
rassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. 
Instead of that jolly round corporation and smug rosy face which he 
used to present, he has of late become as shriveled and shrunk as a 
frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out 
so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, 
now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather 
breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much 
ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy 
legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered hat 
on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every mo< 
ment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking every one stur- 
dily in the face, and trolling out a stavc of a catch or a drinking song ; 
he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head 
drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands 
thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evidenily 
empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all this, 
the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop 
the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an in- 
stant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the coun- 
try ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house or to buy 
another estate ; and, with a valiant swagger and grasping of his 
cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarterstaff. 

Though there may be something rather Avhimsical in all this, yet I 
confess I cannot look upon John's si^ation without strong feelings 
of interest. Vith all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices, he is 
a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a 
fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as hig 



TEE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE, 215 

neiglibors represent him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain, 
homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of 
his good qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity, liis 
quarrelsomeness of his courage, his credulity of his open faith, 
his vanity of his pride, and his bluntness of his sincerity. They 
are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like 
his own oak ; rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose 
bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and 
grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fearful groan- 
ing and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude 
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his 
old family mansion that is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, 
as long as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost 
tremble to see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes 
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good architects, 
that might be of service j but many, I fear, are mere levelers, who, 
when they had cnce got to work with their mattocks on the venerable 
edifice, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, 
and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is 
that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in future ; 
ihat he may cease to distress his mind about other people's affairs ; 
that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his 
neighbors and the peace and happiness of the world by dint of the 
cudgel .; "^hat he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get his house 
into repair • cultivate bis rich estate according to his fancy ; husband 
his income — if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly vjhildren into 
order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and 
long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry 
old age. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 

May no wolf howie : no screech-owle stir 
/ A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or storm ;s come hither, 

'i'o starve cr wi'^her 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love keep it ever flourishing. 

Hereick. 

Tit the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of 
England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that lead through 
the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at 
a village, the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. 
There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants not to 



216 SKETCH-BOOK, 

be found in fhe villages wliich lie on the great coach roads. I deter, 
mined to pass the night there, and having taken an early dinner, 
strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travelers, soon led me to 
the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed, 
it was an object of some curiosity, its oid tower being completely over- 
run with ivy, so that only liere and there a ^^utting buttress, an angle 
of gi:'ay wall, or a fantastically carved ornament peered through the 
verdant covering. It was u lovely evening. V^ie early part of the 
day had been dark and showery, buu in 'he afternoon it had cleared 
up ; and though sullen clouds still Iiung over head, yet there was a 
broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun 
gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all natura into a 
melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Chris- 
tian smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the 
serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 

I had seated myself on a half -sunken tombstone, and was musing, 
as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and 
early friends — on thos^ who were distant, and those who were dead 
—and indulghig in thr/G kind of melancholy fancying which has in it 
something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then the 
stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on my ear ; its tones 
were in unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with 
my feelings ; and it was some time before I recollected that it must 
be tolling the knell A some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw c funeral train moving across the village green ; it 
wound slowly along the lane ; was lost, and reappeared through the 
breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. 
The pall was supported by young girls dressed in white ; and another 
about the age ol seventeen walked before, bearing a chaplet of 
white flowers ; a token that the deceased was a young and unmarried 
female. The corpse was followed by the parents. They were a ven- 
erable couple, of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed 
to repress his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and 
deeply-furrowed face showed the struggle that was passing within. 
His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts 
of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in the 
center aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of white 
gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied. 

Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos ot the funeral service : 
for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one he ha& 
loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains of inno- 
cence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence — what can 
be more affecting ? At that simple but most solemn consignment of 
the body to the grave—" Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dast tp 



THIS PBIDE OF TEE VILLAGE 217 

dust ! " the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed 
unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, 
and to comfort himself with the assurance that the dead are blessed 
which die in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of her child as a 
flower of the field, cut down and withered in the midst of its sweet- 
ness : she was like Rachel, " mourning over her children, and would 
not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the deceased. 
It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. She had been 
the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once been an 
opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only 
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life 
She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of hi- 
little flock. The good man watched over her education with paternal 
care ; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to 
move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in 
life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her 
parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fos- 
tered a natural grace and delicacy of character that accorded with the 
fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like some tender plant 
of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the 
fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her 
companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by the unas 
suming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It might 
be truly said of her, — 

This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ean on the greensward : nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place. 

luc! \dllage was one of those sequestered spots which still retain 
some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and 
holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once 
popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its 
present pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one of those 
simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting jpy 
on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the 
May-pole stood from year to year in the center of the village green : 
on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a 
queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to pre- 
side at the sports and distribute the prizes and rewards. The pic- 
turesque situation of the village and the fancifulness of its rustic 
fetes would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these 
on one May -day was a young oflBcer, whose regiment had been re- 
cently quartered in the neighborhood. He was charmed with thp 



218 8KETGE-B00K 

native taste that pervaded tliis village pageant ; but, above all, with 
the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village 
favorite who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in 
all the beautiful confusion of girlish difhdence and delight. The art- 
lessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance ; 
he gradually won his way into her intimacy, and paid his court to 
her in that unthinking way in which young officers are too apt to 
trifle with rustic simplicity. 

There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never 
even talked of love ; but there are modes of making it more eloquent 
than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the 
lieart. The beam of the eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand 
tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action — 
these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and un- 
derstood, but never described. Can we wonder that they should 
readily win a heart young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, 
she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarceJy inquired what was the 
growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, 
or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the 
future. When present, his looks and words occupied her whole at- 
tention ; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their 
recent interview. She would wander with him tlirough the green 
lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new 
beauties in nature ; he talk*^d in the language of polite and cultivated 
life, and breathed into her jar the witcheries of romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the sexes 
more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure of her youth- 
ful admirer and the splendor of his military attire might at first 
have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that had c ptivated her 
heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry ; she looked 
up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his society 
the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now 
first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and grand. Of 
the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it 
was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those 
of the rustic society to which she liad been accustomed, that elevated 
him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and 
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle with en- 
thusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, 
it was quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea 
of her comparative unworthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was mingled 
with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connection in 
levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of their vil- 
lage conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to 
his reputation as a ujan of spirit, ^iit he was too full of youthfui 



TBE PRIDB OF TBE YILLAGK 219 

fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently cold and 
selfish by a wandering and ditjsipated life : it caught fire from the 
very flame it sought to kindle ; and before he was aware of the na- 
ture of his situation, he became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so ince?^-- 
santly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in life — tii 
prejudices of titled connections — his dependence upon a proud an. > 
unyielding father — all forbade him to think of matrimony ; — but 
when he looked down upon this innocent being, so tender and con- 
fiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her 
life, and a bewitching modesty in" her looks, that awed down every 
licentious feeling. In vaivi did he try to fortify himself by a thou- 
sand heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of 
generous sentiment with that cold derisive levity with which he had 
ueard them talk of female virtue ; whenever he came into her pres- 
ence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive 
charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
taji live. 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the con- 
tinent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for a 
«hort time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesitated to 
tommunicate the tidings, until the day for marching was at hand ; 
tvhen he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening ram- 
ble. 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in 
it once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon it as a sudden 
■ind insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a 
child. He drew her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft 
cheek, nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of 
mingled sorrow and tenderness which hallow the caresses of affec 
tion. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty appai- 
cntly yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, an; 
the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his bet- 
ter feelings — he ventured to propose that she should leave her home 
and be the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered at 
ais own baseness ; but, so innocent of mind was his intended victim, 
that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning ; — and why 
she should leave her native village and the humble roof of her 
parents. When at last the nature of his proposals flashed upon her 
pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — she did not 
break forth into reproaches — she said not a word — but she shrunk 
back aghast as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced 
to his very soul, and clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for 
refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The oflSicer retired, confounded, humiliate<i, *tnd repentant. It is 



t3d SKETGE-BOOK. 

uncertain what miglit liave been tlie result of the conflict of his feel- 
ings had not his tlioughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. 
New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions soon dissipated his 
self-reproach and stifled his tenderness. Yet, amid the stir oi 
camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the 
din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes 
of rural quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the foot- 
path along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the lit- 
tle village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm and listening 
to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction of 
all of her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and hyster- 
ics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a 
settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window 
the march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover 
borne off, as if in triumph, amid the sound of drum and trumpet 
and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as 
the morning sun glittered about his figure and his plume waved in 
the breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and 
left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after-story. It 
was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, and 
wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her 
lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and 
loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her 
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening. sitting in the 
porch of the village church ; and the milk-maids, returning from 
the fields, would now and then overhear her, singing some plaintive 
ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions 
at church ; and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away, 
yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy 
diffuses round the form, they would make way for her, as for some- 
thing spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads in 
gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but look- 
ed forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that liad bound 
her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more pleasure 
under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained resentment 
against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable of angry 
passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a 
farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touch- 
ing from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, and 
did not conceal from him' that his conduct was the cause. She even 
depicted the sufferings which she had experienced ; but concluded 
with saying that she could not die in peace until she had sent him 
her forgiveness and her blessing. 



THE PBIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 2^1 

By degrees lier strength declined, and she could no longer leave 
the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped 
up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out 
upon the landscape. Still she attered no complaint, nor imparted to 
any one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never even 
mentioned her lover's name ; but would lay her head on her mother's 
bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anx- 
iety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering them- 
selves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright 
unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her chtek might be the 
promise of returning health. * 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon ; 
her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and 
the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the clus- 
tering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained round the 
window. - 

Her farther had just been reading a chapter in the Bible ; it spok© 
of the vanity of worldly things and the joys of heaven ; it seemed 
to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye 
was fixed on the distant village church — the bell had tolled for the 
evening service — the last villager was lagging into the porch — and 
everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day 
of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts. 
Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had 
given to hers the expression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her 
soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless lover? — or were 
her thoughts wandering to that distant churchyard, into whose 
bosom she might soon be gathered ? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman galloped to 
the cottage — he dismounted before the window — the poor girl gave 
a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : — it was her repent- 
ant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his 
bosom ; but her wasted form^her death-like countenance — so wan, 
yet so lovely in its desolation— smote him to the soul, and he threw 
himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise — she attempt- 
ed to extend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, 
but no word was articulated — she looked down upon him with a 
smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever ! 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this villagu story. 
They are but scanty, and I am conscious have but little novelty to 
recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and 
high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignificant, but 
they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in connection 
with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper 
iisipression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking 
eature, I Lave passed through the place since, and visited the 



X 



g2^ SKETCH-BOOK. 

churcli again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a 
wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the church- 
yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted 
about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent over it 
to keep the turf uninjured. The church door was open, and 1 
stepped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on 
the day of the funeral : the flowers were withered, it is true, but care 
seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. 
I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers 
to awakevi the sympathy of the spectator ; but I have met with none 
that spoke more touchingly to my heart than this simple but deli- 
cate memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER. 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love. 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentines. 

The jealous trout, that low did lie, 

Eose at a well dissembled fly. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

SirH. "Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away 
from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading 
the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in like manner, 
many of those worthy gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides 
of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand may trace the origin ot 
their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. T rec- 
ollect studying his * ' Complete Angler" several years since, in com- 
pany with a knot of friends in America, and, moreover, that we were 
all completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the 
year ; but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the spring 
began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand, and 
sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote from 
reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equaled the Don in the fullness of his equip- 
ments ; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad- 
skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets ; a pair 
of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for 
fish ; a patent rod ; a landing net, and a score of other inconven- 
iences only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thua harnessed 



TEE ANGLER. 223 

for the field, 1i© was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among 
the country folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel- 
clad hero of La Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook among the highlands 
of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the execution of those 
piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins 
of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that lav- 
ish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties enough to fill 
the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would 
leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
trees threw their broad balancing sprays ; and long nameless weeds 
hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond 
drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in the 
matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and after this ter- 
magant career would steal forth into open day with the most placid 
demure face imaginable, as I have seen some pestilent shrew of a 
housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, come 
dimpling out of doors, swimming, and curtsying, and smiling upon 
all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, 
through some bosom of green meadow land, among the mountains ; 
where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a 
bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a wood- 
cutter's axe from the neighboring forest ! 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that 
required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half 
an hour before I had completely " satisfied the sentiment," and con- 
vinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling 
is something like poetry — a man must be born to it. I hooked my- 
self instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; 
broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed 
the day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his 
fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had be- 
witched me, and not the passion for angling. My companions, how- 
ever, were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at this 
moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, 
where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and 
bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream> as they break 
in upon his rarely-invaded liaant ; the kingfisher watching them sus- 
piciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, 
in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 
from oS the stone or log on which he is sunning himself ; and the 
panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and 
spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also that, after toiling and watching and creeping about 
for the greater part of a day with scarcely any success, in spite of all 



tU 8EETGE-B00K 

our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urcbin came down from 
tbe bills witb a rod made from, a brancb of a tree, a few yards of 
twine, and, as beaven sball belp me ! I believe a crooked pin for a 
book, baited witb a vile eartb-worm — and in balf an bour cauglit 
more fisb tban we bad nibbles tbrougbout tbe day. 

But above all I recollect tbe ' ' good, bonest, wbolesome, bungry " 
repast, wbicb we made under a beacb-tree just by a spring of pure 
sweet water tbat stole out of tbe side of a bill ; and bow, wlien it 
was over, one of tbe party read old Izaak Walton's scene witb tbe 
milk-maid, wliile I lay on tbe grass and built castles in a briglit pile 
of clouds, until I fell asleep. All tbis may appear like mere egotism; 
yet I cannot refrain from uttering tbese recollections, wbicb are pass- 
ing like a strain of music over my mind, and bave been called up by 
an agroeable scene wbicb I witnessed not long since. 

In a morning's stroll along tbe banks of tbe Alun, a beautiful little 
stream wbicb flows down from tbe Welsb bills and tbrows itself into 
tbe Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on tbe margin. 
On approacbing, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two 
rustic disciples. Tbe former was an old fellow witb a wooden leg, 
witb clotbes very mucb but very carefully patcbed, betokening pov- 
erty, bonestly come by, and decently maintained. His face bore tbe 
marks of former storms but present fair weatber ; its furrows bad 
been worn into a babitual smile ; bis iion-gray locks bung about bis 
ears, and be bad altogetber tbe good-bumored air of a constitutional 
pbilosopber wbo was disposed to take tbe world as it went. One of 
bis companions was a ragged wigbt, witb tbe skulking look of an 
arrant poacber, and I'll warrant could find bis way to any gentleman's 
fisb-pond in tbe ueigbborbood in tbe darkest nigbt. Tbe otlier was a 
tall, awkward country lad, witb a lounging gait, and apparently 
Bomewbat of a rustic beau. Tbe old man was busied examining tbe 
maw of a trout wbicb be bad just killed, to discover by its contents 
Wbat insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on tbe sub- 
ject to bis companions, wbo appeared to listen witb infinite deference. 
I have a kind feeling toward all " brotbers of tbe angle," ever since 
I read Izaak Walton. Tliey are men, be afiirms, of a "mild, sweet, 
and peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem for tliem lias been increased 
since I met witb an old ''Tretyse of fisbing witb tbe Angle," in 
wbicb are set fortb many of tbe maxims of tlieir inoffensive fraternity. 
" Take goode bede," saytb tbis bonest little tretyse, "tbat in going 
about your disportes ye open no man's gates but tbat ye sbet tbem 
again. Also ye sball not use tbis foresaid crafti disport for no cove- 
tousness to tbe increasing and sparing of your money only, but prin- 
cipally for your solace and to cause tbe beltb of your body and 
specyally of your soul<^"* 

■•From this same treatise it would appear that angling is a more industrious and 
oevout employment than it is generally considered. " For when ye purpose to go 



THE ANGLER. S35 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an 
exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful con- 
tentedness in his looks that quite drew me toward him. I could not 
but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part 
of the brook to another, waving his rod in the air, to keep the line 
from dragging on the ground or catching among the bushes, and the 
adroitness with which he would throw his fly to any particular places 
sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes casting 
it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging 
bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he 
was giving instructions to his two disciples : showing them the man- 
ner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play 
them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my 
mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country 
around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. 
It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beautiful 
vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to 
swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. The day too, like 
that recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny ; with now and 
then a soft drooping shower, that sowed the whole earth with dia- 
monds. 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much 
entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, I 
kept company with him almost the whole day, wandering along the 
banks of the stream and listening to his talk. He was very commun- 
icative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I fancy 
was a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his 
piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the 
sage? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed some 
years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he 
had entered into trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a 
partner. He had afterward experienced many ups and downs in life 
until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a 
cannon-ball at the battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke) 
of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a pension, 
which, together with some small paternal property, brought him in 
a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native 
village, where he lived quietly and independently, and devoted the 
remainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed 

' r 

on your disportes in fishynge, ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, 
wluch might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge 
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also 
avoyde many vices, as ydleness, which is a principall cause to induce man to many 
(Uher vices, as it is right well known." 
IRVING 1—8 



226 SKETCH-BOOK. 

to have imbibed all Ms simple frankness and prevalent good humor. 
Though he had been sorely buffeted about the world, he was satisfied 
that the world in itself was good and beautiful. Though he had been 
as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced 
by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor 
and kindness, appearing to look only on the good side of things ; 
and above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with who 
had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and 
magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to 
curse the country. 

The lad that was receiving his instructions I learned was the son 
and heir apparent of a fat old widow, who kept the village inn, and 
of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted by the idle, 
gentleman-like personages of the place. In taking him under his 
care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a privileged cor- 
ner in the tap-room and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of ex- 
pense. 

There is certainly something in angling if we could forget, which 
anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms 
and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit and a pure 
serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their rec- 
reations and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been reduced 
among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an amusement 
peculiarly adapted to the mild and cultivated scenery of England, 
where every roughness has been softened away from the landscape. 
It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, 
like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; 
leading one through a diversity of small home scenery, sometimes 
winding through ornamented grounds, sometimes brimming along 
through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with sweet- 
smelling flowers, sometimes venturing in sight of villages and ham- 
lets, and then running capriciously away into shady retirements. 
The sweetness and serenity of nature and the quiet watchfulness of 
the sport gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are now 
and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant 
whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping 
out of the still water and skimming transiently about its glassy sur- 
face. "When I would beget content," says Isaak Walton, "and in- 
crease confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Al- 
mighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream and 
there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many 
other little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man 
knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore 
trust in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of tho??^ •»- 
cient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent aod 
happy Bpirit : 



TBE ANOLEB. 827 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place ; 
Where I may see my quill, or cork down sink, 

With eager bite of Pike, or Bleak, or Dace. 
And on the world and my creator think ; 

While some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace' 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war of wantonness. 

Let them that will these pastimes still pursue. 
And on such pleasing fancies feed their filV 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 
And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 

On parting witli the old angler I inquired after his place of abode, 
and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a few even- 
ings afterward I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him 
living in a small cottage containing only one room, but a perfect curi- 
osity in its method and arrangement. It was on tlie skirts of the 
village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small 
garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs and adorned with a few 
Sowers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a honey- 
suckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The interior was 
fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and conveni- 
ence having been acquired on the berth- deck of a man-of-war. A 
hammock was slung from the ceiling, which in the day-time was 
lashed up so as to take but little room. From the center of the cham- 
ber hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or three 
chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, formed the principal mov- 
ables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as. Admiral 
Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling, intermingled 
with pictures of sea-fights, among which the battle of Camperdown 
held a distinguished place. The mantelpiece was decorated with sea- 
shells, over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of 
most bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for angling 
were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about the room. On a 
shelf was arranged his library, containing a work on angling, much 
worn ; a Bible covered with canvass, an odd volume or two of voy- 
ages, a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye and a parrot 
which he had caught and tamed and educated himself in the course 
of one of his voyages, and which uttered a variety of sea phrases 
with the hoarse rattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The establish- 
ment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was 
kept in neat order, everything being " stowed away " with the regu- 


* J. Davors. 



SSS BKETGH-BOOK. 

larity of a sMp of war ; and lie informed me fhat he "scoured the 
deck every morning and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe 
in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the 
threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an 
iron ring that swung in the center of his cage. He had been angling 
all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness 
as a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly ani- 
mated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, 
which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he 
had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age, and 
to behold a poor fellow like this, after being tempest-tossed through 
life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the evening of his 
days ! His happiness, however, sprung from within himself and 
was independent of external circumstances, for he had that inexhaus- 
tible good nature which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spread- 
ing itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought and keeping the 
mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring farther about him I learned that he was a universal 
favorite in the village and the oracle of the tap-room ; where he de- 
lighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, astonished them 
with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He 
was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbor- 
hood ; had taught several of them the art of angling, and was a 
privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was 
quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the neighboring 
streams when the weather and season were favorable, and at other 
times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for 
the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and flies, for his pa- 
trons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he gen- 
erally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his particular 
request that when he died he should be buried in a green spot which 
he could see from his seat in church, and which he had marked out 
ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far from home on 
the raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes — it was the spot 
where his father and mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but I 
could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy " brother 
of the angle," who has made me more than ever in love with the 
theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his 
art ; and I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of honest 
Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master upon my 
reader, ** and upon all that are true lovers of virtue, and dare trust in 
his providence and be quiet, and go a angling." 



THE LEGEND OF BlEBl^T HOLLOW. 229 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(found among the papers of the late DIEDRICH KNICKER- 
BOCKER.) 

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 

In tlie bosom of one of those spacious coves wliicli indent tlie east- 
ern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river de- 
nominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, and where 
they always prudently shortened sail and implored the protection of 
St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market town or 
rural port, which by some is called Greensburg, but which is more 
generally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town. This 
name was given it, we are told, in former days by the good house- 
wives of the adjacent qountry, from the -inveterate propensity of their 
husbands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be that 
as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it for the 
sake of being precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps 
about three miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land among 
high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull 
one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a quail or tapping of a 
woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the 
uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- shoot- 
ing was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shaded one side of the 
valley. I had wandered into it at noon-time, when all nature is pecu- 
liarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun as it broke 
the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by 
the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat whither I 
might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly 
away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising 
than this little valley. 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of 
its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, 
this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy 
Hollow, and its rastic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys 
throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influ- 
ence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmos- 
phere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German 
doctor during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an. old 



1^80 SKETCH-BOOK. - 

Indian chief, tlie prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows 
there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of some witch- 
ing power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, 
causing them to walk in a continual revery. They are given to alj 
kinds of marvelous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions, and 
frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. 
The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and 
twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across 
the valley than in any other part of the country, and the night-mar© 
with her whole nine fold seems to make it the favorite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, 
and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is 
the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by 
some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been car- 
ried away by a cannon-ball in some nameless battle during the Revo- 
lutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk 
hurrying along in the gloom of night as if on the wings of the wind. 
His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the 
adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of 
those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the 
loating facts concerning this specter, allege that the body of the 
trooper having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth 
to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rush- 
ing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a 
midnight blast, is owing to his being belated and in a hurry to get 
back to the churchyard before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which 
has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shad- 
ows ; and the specter is known at all the country firesides by the 
name of The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is 
not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is uncon- 
sciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. How- 
ever wideawake they may have been before they entered that sleepy 
region, they are sure in a little time to inhale the witching influence 
of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams and see 
apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is in such 
little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the 
great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs re- 
main fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, 
which is making such incessant charges in other parts of this restless 
country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those little 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 331 

nooks of still Water which border a rapid stream, where we may see the 
straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their 
mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not sti'Jl find the same 
trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. 

In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of Ameri- 
can history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wight of 
the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, 
" tarried " in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose of instructing the chil- 
dren of the vicinity He was a native of Connecticut, a state which 
supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the 
forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and 
country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable 
to his person. He was tall but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoul- 
ders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, 
feet tliat might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most 
loosely hung together. His head was small and flat at top, with 
huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it 
looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell 
which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a 
hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about 
him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descend- 
ing upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely con- 
structed of logs ; the windows partly glazed and partly patched with 
leaves of copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours, 
by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the 
window-shutters ; so that though a thief might get in with perfect 
ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out ; — an idea 
most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the 
mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook run- 
ning close by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. 
From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their 
lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a 
beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the 
master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the 
appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along 
the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious 
man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod and 
spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel 
potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects ; on 
the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than 
severity ; t^iag the burden off the backs of tlie weak and laying ii 



232 SKETCH-BOOK 

on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling that winced at the 
least flourish of the rod was passed by with indulgence ; but the 
claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some 
little, tough, wrong-headed, broad- skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this 
he called " doing his duty by their parents ; " and he never inflicted 
a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory 
to the smarting urchin, that '' he would remember it and thank him 
for it the longest day he had to live. " 

When school hours were over, he was ever the companion and 
playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons would convoy 
some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters 
or good house wifes for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cup- 
board. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
have been scarcely sufllcient to furnish him with daily bread, for he 
was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers, of an 
anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to 
country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of 
the farmers whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- 
cessively a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighbor- 
hood with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic 
patrons, who are apt to consider the cost of schooling a grievous bur- 
den, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of ren- 
dering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers 
occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to make hay ; 
mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from 
pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the 
dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his 
little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiat- 
ing. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the chil- 
dren, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which 
whilome so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a 
child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours 
together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the 
neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instracting 
the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to 
him on Sundays to take his station in front of the church gallery 
with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he com- 
pletely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his 
voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there 
are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church , and which may 
even be heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill- 
pond, on a still Sunday morning, which •\re said to be legitimately 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 233 

descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers littla 
make-shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated 
' ' by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably 
enough, and was thought by all who understood nothing of the labor 
of head-work to have a wonderful easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the 
female circle of a raral neighborhood ; being considered a kind of idle, 
gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior tastes and accomplish- 
ments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior only in learn- 
ing to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some 
little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a super 
numerary dish of cakes or ^sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade 
of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly 
happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure 
among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays ! gather- 
ing grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surround- 
ing trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tomb- 
stones ; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them along the banks of 
the adjacent millpond ; while the more bashful country bumpkins 
hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of traveling gazette, 
carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house ; so 
that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He was 
moreover esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of 
Cotton Mather's History of New England Witchcraft, in which, by 
the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple 
credulity. His appetite for the marvelous and his powers of digest- 
ing it were equally extraordinary ; and both had been increased by 
his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too gross or 
monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after 
hia school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the 
rich bed of clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by his 
schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the 
gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before 
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and 
awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened to be 
quartered, every sound of nature at that witching hour fluttered 
his excited imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will * from the 
hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad^ that harbinger of storm ; 
the dreary hooting ©f the screech-owl ; or the sudden rustling in the 
thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire-flies, too, 
which sparkled m ost vividly in the darkest places, now and then 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is onlrheard at night. It receives its nama 
£rom its note, which is thought to ressmble those words. 



234 SKETCH-BOOK 

startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his 
path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging 
his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give 
up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. 
His only resource on such occasions either to drown thought or drive 
away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; — and the good people of 
Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often 
filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweetness 
long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky 
road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winter 
evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, 
with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and 
listen to their marvelous tales of ghosts, and goblins, and haunted 
fields and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses, 
and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of 
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them 
equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and 
potentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier 
times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them woefully with specu- 
lations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact 
that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the 
time topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the 
chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the 
crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show 
its face, it was dea/ly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
walk homeward. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, 
amid the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With what wist- 
ful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the 
waste fields from some distant window ! — How often was he appalled 
by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted specter beset 
his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the 
sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread 
to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being 
tramping close behind him ! — and how often was he thrown into com- 
plete dismay by some rushing blast howling among the trees, in the 
idea that it was the galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of 
the mind, that walk in darkness : and though he had seen many 
specters in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in divers 
shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all 
these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite 
of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been crossed by a 
being that causes more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, gob- 
lins, and the whole race of witches put together ; and that was — a 
woman. .„>^ 



TBE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 285 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each 
week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tas- 
sel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She 
was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe 
and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and 
universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expecta- 
tions. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived 
even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and modern fash- 
ions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments 
®f pure yellow gold which her great-great-grandmother had brought 
over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and 
withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and 
ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex ; and it 
is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found favor 
in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal 
mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, 
contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent either 
his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but 
within these everything was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. 
He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued 
himself npon the hearty abundance rather than the style in which 
he lived. His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, 
in one Of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch 
farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its broad 
branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled np a spring of the 
softest and sweetest water, in a little well formed of a barrel, and 
then stole sparkling away through the grass to a neighboring brook, 
that babbled along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the 
farmhouse was a vast barn, that might have served for a church, 
every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the 
treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily resounding within it from 
morning to night ; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about 
the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if 
watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or 
buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing 
about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, 
unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their 
pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, 
as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding 
in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of 
turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fret- 
ting about it like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, dia- 
eontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, that 
pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his 
Wrnislied wings aad crowi^ig ip ^3^ pride and gladi^ss of lus heart 



m 8KETCE-B00K. 

— sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously 
calling Ills ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the 
rich morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mruth watered as he looked upon this sumptuous 
promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he 
pictured to himself every roasting pig running about, with a pudding 
in its belly and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put 
to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; 
the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing 
cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek 
Bide of bacon and juicy, relishing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld 
daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradven- 
ture, a necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer 
liimself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, 
as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask 
while living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his 
great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, 
of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened 
with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tas- 
sel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these do- 
mains, and his imagination expanded with the idea how they might 
be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts 
of wild land and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy 
fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a 
wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dang- 
ling beneath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with 
a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee — or the Lord 
knows where ! 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was com- 
plete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged 
but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the 
first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves forming a piazza along 
the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this 
were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for 
fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides 
for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a churn 
at the other, showed the various uses to which this important porch 
might be devoted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered 
the hall, which formed the center of the mansion and the place of 
usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long 
dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool, 
ready to be spun ; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried apples and 



TME LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. ^S? 

peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud 
of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the best 
parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone 
like mirrors ; andirons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, 
glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and 
conch shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings of various colored 
birds' eggs were suspended above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung 
from the center of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly 
left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended 
china. 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of de- 
light, the peace of his mind was at an end, an<-/ his only study was 
how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In 
this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally 
fell to the lot of a knight- errant of yore, who seldom had anything 
but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered 
adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his way merely 
through gates of iron and brass and walls of adamant to the castle- 
keep, where the lady of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved 
as easily as a man would carve his way to the center of a Christmas 
pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. 
Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a coun- 
try coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, which 
were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments, and he 
had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, 
the numerous rustic admirers who beset every portal to her heart, 
keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly 
out in the common 3ause against any new competitor. 

Among these, the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering 
blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch abbrevia- 
tion, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung 
with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad-shouldered 
and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. 
From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb, he had received 
the nickname of Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. 
He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being 
as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races 
and cock-fights, and with the ascendancy which bodily strength always 
acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat 
on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that ad- 
mitted of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a 
fight or a frolic ; had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; 
and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of 
waggish good-humor at bottom. He had three or four boon compan- 
ions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at tb© 



23a SKETCH-BOO^. 

head of wliom lie scoured the country, attending every scene of feud 
or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished 
by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the 
folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a dis- 
tance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always 
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing 
along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like 
a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out of their 
sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered 
,by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " 
The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, 
and good- will ; and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred 
in the vicinity, always shook their heads and warranted Brom Bones 
was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the blooming 
Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his 
amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and endear- 
ments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether dis- 
courage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a lion in his 
amours ; insomuch that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's 
paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master was courting, 
or, as it is termed, " sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in 
despair, and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to 
contend, and considering all things a stouter man than he would have 
shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. 
He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance iu 
his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, 
but tough ; though be bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed 
beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away — jerk ! 
— he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been 
madness, for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours any 
more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his^ 
advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover of 
his character of singing-master he made frequent visits at the farm- 
house ; not that he had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome 
interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block in the 
path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent soul ; he 
loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a reasonable 
man and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. 
His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her house- 
keeping and manage the poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks 
and geese are foolish things and must be looked after, but girls can 
take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 239 

tte house or plied lier spinning- wheel at one end of tlie piazza, hon- 
est Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching 
the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed with a 
sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the Avind on the pin- 
nacle of the barn. In the meantime Ichabod would carry on his suit 
with the daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm, or 
sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's 
eloquence, 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. To 
me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some 
seem to have but one vulnerable point or door of access, while others 
have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand differ- 
ent ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a 
still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, 
for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He 
that wins a thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some re- 
nown ; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a co- 
quette is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the 
redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane made 
his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined ; his 
horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a 
deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of Sleepy 
Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would 
fain have carried matters to open warfare and settled their pretensions 
to the lady according to the mode of those most concise and simple 
reasoners, the knights-errant of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod 
was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the 
lists against him; he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would 
"double the schoolmaster up and put him on a shelf" ; and he was 
too wary to give him an opportunity. There was something ex- 
tremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left Brom no 
alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his dis- 
position, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Icha- 
bod became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his 
gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains, 
smoked out his singing-school by stopping up the chimney, broke 
into the school-house at night in spite of its formidable fastenings of 
withe and window-stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy, so that 
the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country 
held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom 
took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in prese ze of his 
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whiae in the 
most ludicrous manner and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to in- 
struct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time without producing any 



940 SKETCH-BOOK, - ~ 

material effect on the relative situations of the contending" powers. 
On a fine autumnal afternoon Icliabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned 
on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all the concerns 
of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that 
scepter of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed on three 
nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; while on the 
desk before him might be seen sundry contraband articles and pro- 
hibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 
half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole le- 
gions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been 
some appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were 
all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them 
with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness 
reigned throaghout the schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted 
by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a 
round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and 
mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he 
managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to 
the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-mak- 
ing, or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Van 
Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of import- 
ance and effort at fine language which a negro is apt to display on 
petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook and was seen 
scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of 
his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. The 
scholars were hurried through their lessons without stopping at trifles; 
those who were nimble skipped ov^r half with impunity, and those 
who were tardy had a smart application now and then in the rear, 
to quicken their speed or help them over a tall word. Books were 
flung aside, without being put away on the shelves ; inkstands were 
overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned 
loose an hour before the usual time ; bursting forth like a legion of 
young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their 
early emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his 
t-oilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of 
rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass 
that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appear- 
ance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed 
a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric 
old Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Eipper, and, thus gallantly 
mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. 
But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give 
some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. 
The anim|^ he bestrode was a broken-down plow-horse that h?d ovt 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 241 

lived almost everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and 
shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his rusty mane 
and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eve had lost its 
pupil and was glaring and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a 
genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, 
if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, 
in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, 
who was a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his 
own spirit into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly 
in the country 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short 
stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the 
saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his 
whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a scepter, and as the horse 
jogged on the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a 
pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so 
his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his 
black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the ap- 
pearance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate 
of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is 
seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a flne autumnal day ; the sky was clear and 
serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always 
associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their 
sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had 
been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and 
scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appear- 
ance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from 
the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the full- 
ness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from 
bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and 
variety around them. There was the honest cockrobin, the favorite 
game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note, and the 
twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- winged 
woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and 
splendid plumage ; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipped wings and 
yellow-tipped tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the 
blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white 
underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and 
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of 
the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every 
symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treaa* 



m BKBTGH-BOOJ^. 

Tires, of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast stores of apples, 
some hanging- in opp?'>^sive opulence on the trees, some gathered into 
baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich piles for 
the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, 
with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out 
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins 
lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, 
and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and anon 
he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the 
bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his 
mind of dainty slap-jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey 
or treacle, b/ the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van 
Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and ' ' sugared 
suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which 
look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The 
sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide 
bosom of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that 
here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the 
8ky without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a 
fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from 
that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered 
on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of 
the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their 
rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and 
as the reflection of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed 
as if the vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the 
Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and flower 
of the adjacent country : old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, 
in home-spun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and 
magnificent pewter buckles ; their brisk, withered little dames, in 
close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with 
scissors and pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the out- 
,side ; buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except- 
ijjg where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave 
symptoms of city innovations ; the sons, in short square-skirted 
coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally 
queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure 
an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country 
aa a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to 
the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, 
full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 243 

manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given 
to all kinds of tricks wMch. kept the rider in constant risk of Ms 
neck, for he held a tractable well- broken horse as unworthy of a lad 
of spirit. 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst 
upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor 
of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, 
with their luxurious display of red and white, but the ample charms 
of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of au- 
tumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost inde- 
scribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! There 
was the doughty dough-nut, the tender oly-koek, and the crisp and ■ 
crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and 
honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies, besides slices of ham 
and smoked beef, and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums 
and peaches, and pears and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens, together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled 
higgledy-piggledy pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the 
motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — 
Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this 
banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, 
but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in pro- 
portion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose 
with eating, as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, 
rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the 
possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of almost 
unimaginable luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd 
turn his back upon the old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face 
of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick 
any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him 
comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face 
dilated with content and good humor, round and jolly as the harvest 
moon. His hospitable attentions were brief but expressive, being 
confined to a shaike of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, 
and a pressing invitation to " fall to and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, 
summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headed 
negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for 
more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered 
as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or 
three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a mo- 
tion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground and stamping with 
bis foot whoever a fresh couple were to i^u^. 



244 SKETCH-BOOK. 

Icliabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his 
vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fiber about him was idle ; and to 
have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about 
the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed 
patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the 
admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and 
sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid 
of shining black faces at every door and window ; gazing with de- 
light at the scene ; rolling their white eye-balls, and showing grin- 
ning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urcliins 
be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of his heart was 
his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all his 
amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and 
jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. 

When the dance was at an end, Icliabod was attracted to a knot of 
the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of 
the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawling out long stories 
about the war. 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one 
of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle and 
great men. The British and American line had run near it during 
the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and infest- 
ed with refugees, cow-boys, and all kind of border chivalry. Just 
sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his 
tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his 
recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue-bearded 
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron 
nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the 
sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be 
nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in 
the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of defense, 
parried a musket-ball with a small-sword, insomuch that he abso- 
lutely felt it whiz round the blade and glance off at the hilt, in 
proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with 
the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally 
great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had 
a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions 
that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of 
the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these shel- 
tered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled under foot by the 
shifting throng that forms the population of most of our country 
places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their first 
nap and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving 



TEE LEGEJS'D OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 245 

friends liave traveled away from the neigliborliood : so tliat wlien 
they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaint- 
ance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so sel- 
dom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch com- 
munities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural 
stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy 
Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blue from that 
haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fan- 
cies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their 
wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about 
funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen 
about the great tree where the unfortunate Major. Andre was taken, 
and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also 
of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, 
and was often heard to shriek on Aviuter nights before a storm, hav- 
ing perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, how. 
ever, turned upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the head- 
less horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patroling 
the country, and, it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the 
graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, 
surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its 
decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian pur- 
ity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 
scends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, 
between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hud- 
son. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem 
to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead 
might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide 
woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks 
and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, 
not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; 
the road that led to it and the bridge itself were thickly shaded by 
overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day- 
time, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of 
the favorite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where 
he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old 
Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the 
horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollew, and was 
obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the 
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into 
tiie brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 



246 SKETCH-BOOK, 

This story was immediately matched by a tlirice marvelous adven- 
ture of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Hessian as an 
arrant jockey. He aflfirmed that on returning one night from the 
neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this 
midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl 
of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin 
horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the 
Hessian bolted and vanished, in a flash of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men 
«i;alk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
ihen receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in 
the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts 
from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many mar-~ 
velous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, 
and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about 
Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of 
hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and 
fainter, until they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise 
and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered be- 
hind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tet© 
with the heiress, fully convinced that he was now on the high road 
to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, 
for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must 
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great 
interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen — Oh, these 
women! these women'. Could that girl have been playing off any 
of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her encouragement of the poor ped- 
agogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven 
only knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the 
air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost rather than a fair lady's 
heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of 
rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to 
the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed 
most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which he was 
soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of com and oats and whole 
valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night th'<^6- Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homeward, along the 
sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he 
had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was jv^ dismal 
ag himself. F^r below him the Tappaan Z^e spread its dusky and 



THE LBGENlf OF SLEEP T HOLLOW. 'A1 

indistinct waste of waters, with liere and tliere tlie tall mast of a 
sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of 
midnight he CQuld even hear the barking of the watch-dog from the 
opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only 
to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally 
awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farmhouse away 
among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No 
signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp 
of a cricket, or perhaps the gutteral twang of a bull-frog from a 
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning sud- 
denly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the after- 
noon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew 
darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and 
driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never 
felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very 
place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. 
In tbe center of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered 
like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood and form- 
ed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large 
enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to 
the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the 
tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, who had been taken pris- 
oner hard by, and was universally known by the name of Major 
Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of 
respect and superstiton, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill- 
starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and dole- 
ful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearf ui tree, he began to whistle ; he 
thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast sweeping 
sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, 
he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst of the 
tree : he paused, and ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrow- 
ly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by 
lightning and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a 
groan — his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle : 
it was but the rubbing of one huge bow upon another, as they were 
swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed the 
road, and ran into a marshy and thickly- wooded glen, known by the 
name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served 
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the 
brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted 
thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. Ta 



248 SKETCH-BOOK. 

pass tMs bridge was the severest trial. It was at tliis identical spot 
that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of 
those chestnuts and vin^es rvere the sturdy yeomen concealed who 
surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted 
stream, and fearful are the feelings of a school-boy who has to pass 
it alone after dark. 

As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; he sum- 
moned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the 
bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ich- 
abod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the 
other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it was all in 
vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to th© 
opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes. 
The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starv- 
eling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuMng and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a suddenness 
that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 
moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensi- 
tive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the mar- 
gin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black and 
towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like 
some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with ter- 
ror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too late ; and 
besides, what cliance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such 
it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning 
up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering ac- 
cents — "Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated his 
demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. 
Once more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and 
shutting his eyes broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm 
tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, 
and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the 
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the 
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to 
be a horseman of large dimension, and mounted on a black horse of 
powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of 
old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, 
and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the gal 
loping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him be- 
hind The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. 
Ichabod pulled up and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the 



TEE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 249 

other did the same. His heart began to sink within him ; he endeav- 
ored to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the 
roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was some- 
thing in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- 
ion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully ac- 
counted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the figure 
of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and 
muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he 
was headless ! but his horror was still more increased on observing 
that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried 
before him on the pommel of his saddle ! His terror rose to despera- 
tion ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hop- 
ing, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but the 
specter started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed 
through thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks flashing at every 
bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched 
his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his 
flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow ; 
but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of 
keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down 
hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by 
trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous 
in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on which 
stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskillful rider an ap- 
parent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half-way 
through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it 
slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeav- 
ored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save himself 
by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to 
the earth and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For 
a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his 
mind — for it was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty 
fears : the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskillful rider 
that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slip- 
ping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the 
high ridge of his horse's backbone, with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the 
church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star 
in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He 
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. 
He recollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor had 
disappeared. "If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I 
am safe.'- Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing 



25d BKETGS-BOOK. 

close behind liim ; lie even fancied that he felt his hat breath. An- 
other convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon the 
bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained the op- 
posite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer 
should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone, 
Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups and in the very act 
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horri 
ble missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremen- 
dous crash — he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, 
the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and 
with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his 
master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast — 
dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school- 
house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook, but no school- 
master. Hans Van Kipper now began to feel some uneasiness about 
the fate of poor Ichabod- and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one 
part of the road leading to the church, was found the saddle trampled 
in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and 
evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, 
on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep 
and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not 
to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, ex- 
amined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They 
consisted of two shirts and a half, two stocks for the neck, a pair 
or two of worsted stockings, an old pair of corduroy small-clothes, 
a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes full of dog's ears, and a broken 
pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they 
belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of 
Witchcraft, a New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and for- 
tune-telling, in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled 
and blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in 
.honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the 
poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van 
Ripper, who, from that time forward, determined to send his chil- 
dren no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come 
of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmas- 
ter possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two 
before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disap- 
pearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on 
the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in 
the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 251 

pumpkin liad been found. Tlie stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a 
whole budget of others were called to mind ; and when they had 
diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symptoms 
of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclu- 
sion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As 
he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head 
any more about him ; the school was removed to a different quarter 
of the Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a 
visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly 
adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod 
Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighborhood partly 
through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mor- 
tification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he 
had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had kept 
school and studied law at the same time ; had been admitted to the 
bar ; turned politician ; electioneered ; written for the newspapers : 
and finally had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
Bones too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance, conducted the 
blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look ex- 
ceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and 
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; 
which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than 
he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best Judges of these 
matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited away by 
supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told about the 
neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge bocame 
more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; and that may be the 
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach 
the church by the border of the mill pond. The school-house, being 
deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the 
ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the plow-boy, loitering 
homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a 
distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil soli- 
tudes of Sleepy HoUow, 

POSTSCEIPT, 

POIJin> IN THE HA]SrDWKITING OF MK. KNICKERBOCKER. 

The preceding Tale is given almost in the precise words in which 
I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of the 
Manhattoes,* at which were present many of its sagest and most illus- 

* JTew York* ^"^ ' 



m "^ " ~ V BKETGM-BOOk. 

trions burners. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly 
old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face, 
and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — he made such 
efforts to be entertaining. When his story was concluded there was 
much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy 
aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There 
was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eye- 
brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout ; 
now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down 
upon the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one 
of your wary men who never laugh but upon good grounds — when 
they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the 
rest of the company had subsided and silence was restored, he leaned 
one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other a-kimbo, 
demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, 
and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and 
what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, 
as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering the glass 
slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most logi- 
cally to prove : — 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleas- 
ures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, is likely 
to have rough riding of it : 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this 
explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllo* 
gism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with 
something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that all this 
was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the extrava- 
gant—there were one or two points on which he had his doubts : 

" Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, **as to that matter, I don't 
keliev* ©ne half of it myself." D. IL 



LEl^TOL 25S 



L'ENVOI. 

CrO, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
And specially let this be thy pray ere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct, in any part or all. 

Chatjcbr's Bell Dame sans Mercie. 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketcli-Book, the Author 
cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence wiih which his 
first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has been 
evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, 
whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singu- 
larly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn 
objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual excep- 
tions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total con- 
demnation of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, 
that what one has particularly censured another has as particularly 
praised : and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objections, 
he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind 
favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed 
upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is given gratis, 
it may seem a man's own fault if he should go astray. He only can 
say, in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to 
govern himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon his 
first ; but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excel- 
lent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; an- 
other to shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolera- 
ble at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while 
a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, 
and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was griev- 
ously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spark of humor. 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn closed 
some particular path, but left him all the world beside to range in, 
he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to stand 
still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed, when, all at onc^, 
the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work 
being miscellaneous, and written for different humors, it could not be 
expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ; but that if 
it should contain something to suit each reader, his end would be 
comnletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with an 
equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted 
pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomination ; a third 
eannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl ; and a 



^4 SKETCH-BOOK. 

f ourtli, of truV masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on 
those knicknacks here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each 
article is condemned in its turn ; and yet, amid this variety of appetites, 
seldom does a dish go away from tlie table without being tasted and 
relished by some one or other of the guests. 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second vol- 
ume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply request- 
(/ng the reader, if he should find here and there something to please 
him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent 
readers like himself ; but entreating him, should he find anything to 
dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the Author has 
been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. 

To be serious. — The Author is conscious of the numerous faults and 
imperfections of his work, and well aware how little he is disciplined 
and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are 
also increased by a diflB.dence arising from his peculiar situation. 
He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a 
public which he has, been accustomed from childhood to regard with 
the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to 
deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually em- 
barrassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence 
which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with 
which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he 
may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, 
half shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at 
his own temerity. 



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